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THE    BOOK   OF   FRIENDSHIP 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  -  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE  BQOKl 
OF  FRIENDSHIP 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

SAMUEL  M' CHORD  CROTHERS 

AND    WITH  DRAWINGS  BY 

VLADYSLAWT.BENDA 


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Copyright,  1910, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1910* 
Holiday  edition.     Published  October,  1910. 


KartoooD  ]Pns8 

J.  i3.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &,  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


24  + 


INTRODUCTION 

o 

^    OHAKESPEARE    describes    the   way  in   which   the 
4,    ^  essence  of  fleeting  beauty  is  preserved. 

^  "For  never-resting  time  leads  summer  on 

^  To  hideous  winter,  and  confounds  him  there : 
,-  ,  Sap  checked  with  frost,  and  lusty  leaves  quite  gone, 

^  Beauty  o'ersnowed  and  bareness  everywhere : 
Then  were  not  summer's  distillation  left 

jj  A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  walls  of  glass, 

J  Beauty's  efifect  with  beauty  were  bereft, 

I  Now  it  nor  no  remembrance  what  it  was, 

.  But  flowers  distilled,  though  they  with  winter  meet 

^  Leese  but  their  show,  their  substance  still  lives  sweet." 

^  A  Book  of  Friendship  is  an  attempt  to  collect  some  of 
r  these  "  flowers  distilled  "  from  the  world's  literature.  As 
*^  the  generations  pass,  friends  are  separated.  But  theirs 
-are  expressions  of  feeling  that  are  imperishable.  The 
j,"  substance  still  Hves  sweet." 

^  It  is  pleasant  not  only  to  know  what  wise  men  have 
o  thought  about  friendship,  but  how  friendly  souls  have 
^actually  felt.  There  must  be  a  vast  variety  in  the  in- 
cidents of  friendships  and  a  unity  in  its  essential  nature. 
No  abstract  or  philosophical  description  can  satisfy  us 
in  regard  to  an  intimate  personal  experience  which  we 
all  have  felt. 

I  can  imagine  a  warm-hearted  friend  reading  Emerson's 

Essay  on  Friendship,  and  wondering  what  it  is  all  about. 

"Why  should  we  desecrate  noble  and  beautiful  souls 

V 


Introduction 

by  intruding  on  them?  Why  insist  on  rash  personal 
relations  with  your  friend?  Why  go  to  his  house  and 
know  his  mother  or  brother  or  sisters  ?  Why  be  visited 
by  him  at  your  own  ?  Are  these  material  to  our  cove- 
nant ?  Leave  this  touching  and  clawing.  Let  him  be  to 
me  a  spirit."  ...  "  The  hues  of  the  opal,  the  light  of 
the  diamond,  are  not  to  be  seen  if  the  eye  is  too  near. 
To  my  friend  I  write  a  letter  and  receive  a  letter.  That 
seems  to  you  a  letter.  It  suffices  me.  It  is  a  spiritual 
gift  worthy  of  him  to  give  and  of  me  to  receive.  It 
profanes  nobody."  ...  "I  do  then  with  my  friends 
as  I  do  with  my  books.  I  would  have  them  where  I  can 
find  them,  but  I  seldom  use  them.  We  must  have 
society  on  our  own  terms  and  admit  or  exclude  on  the 
slightest  cause.  I  cannot  afford  to  speak  much  with  my 
friends." 

To  the  ordinary  person  there  is  something  chilly  in 
all  this.  But  if  we  cannot  feel,  or  desire  to  feel  in  just 
this  way  toward  those  whom  we  call  our  friends,  we  can 
at  least  try  to  understand  what  Emerson  meant.  To 
him  friendship  was  something  sacred.  The  friend  was 
the  elect  soul  who  stood  always  for  the  ideal  best.  For 
him  to  fall  short  of  the  ideal  was  to  forfeit  his  sacred 
office.  Friendship  and  Duty  were  from  this  point  of 
view  identical;  for  it  is  the  friend  who  points  the  way 
and  keeps  us  in  it. 

"O  friend,  my  bosom  said 
Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched. 
Through  thee  the  rose  is  red. 
All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form 
And  look  beyond  the  earth, 
The  mill  round  of  our  fate  appears 

vi 


Introduction 

A  siin-path  in  thy  worth. 

Me,  too,  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To  master  my  despair ; 

The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  frieadship  fair." 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  Emerson's  ethereal  friendship  with 
its  fastidious  withdrawal  from  aU  personal  contact,  to 
the  friendship  of  Huckleberry  Finn  and  Negro  Jim  as  they 
lie  sprawling  on  the  raft  in  the  middle  of  the  Mississippi. 
Neither  of  them  would  have  understood  the  high  moods 
of  the  spirit.  Neither  of  them  illustrated  the  dignity 
of  human  nature.  One  was  a  specimen  of  the ' '  poor  white 
trash  "as  it  existed  on  the  great  river,  and  the  other  was 
a  runaway  slave.  They  had  not  chosen  one  another; 
they  had  literally  been ' '  thrown  together  "  as  by  a  careless 
Fate.  They  had  shared  the  same  crusts,  they  had  smoked 
together  and  fished  off  the  same  log,  and  lied  and  stolen 
in  the  common  cause  of  self-preservation.  In  all  this 
there  was  nothing  consciously  ethical  or  inspiring.  When 
Huckleberry  Finn's  conscience  did  assert  itself,  it  was 
by  way  of  protest  against  this  friendship.  His  con- 
science was  vague  on  most  points,  but  one  thing  he  knew 
to  be  wrong.  Whatever  other  form  of  stealing  might 
be  condoned,  he  was  clear  in  regard  to  the  heinousness 
of  the  sin  of  steahng  a  slave  from  his  lawful  owner. 
When  he  shpped  off  the  raft  determined  to  give  the  in- 
formation that  would  send  Jim  back  to  slavery,  he  felt 
that  he  was  about  to  do  a  noble  act. 

Then  he  lost  his  nerve.  He  refused  to  obey  his  in- 
ward monitor  and  sneaked  back  to  his  companion.  "I 
got  aboard  the  raft  feeling  bad  and  low,  because  I  knowed 
very  well  I  had  done  wrong,  and  I  see  it  wam't  no  use 

vii 


Introduction 

for  me  to  learn  to  do  right :  a  body  that  don't  get  started 
right  when  he's  little  ain't  got  no  show  —  when  the 
pinch  comes,  there  ain't  nothing  to  back  him  up  and 
keep  him  to  his  work,  and  so  he  gets  beat.  Then  I 
thought  a  minute,  and  says  to  myself,  hold  on,  s'pose 
you'd  a  done  right  and  give  Jim  up,  would  you  have 
felt  better  than  what  you  do  now  ?  No,  says  I,  I'd  feel 
bad  —  I'd  feel  just  the  same  way  I  do  now.  Well,  then, 
says  I,  what's  the  use  you  learning  to  do  right  when 
it's  troublesome  to  do  right  and  ain't  no  trouble  to  do 
wrong,  and  the  wages  is  just  the  same?  I  was  stuck. 
I  couldn't  answer  that.  So  I  reckoned  I  wouldn't 
bother  no  more  about  it,  but  after  this  always  do  which- 
ever come  handiest  at  the  time." 

Huckleberry  Finn  was  unable  to  apologize  for  the  im- 
pulse upon  which  he  acted.  It  seemed  to  him  a  weak- 
ness —  which  he  accepted  just  as  he  accepted  his  other 
manifold  weaknesses.  He  was  used  to  yielding  to 
temptation,  and  here  was  another.  He  was  aware  that 
he  ought  to  give  Jim  up,  and  he  would  have  done  it  if 
he  hadn't  known  him  so  well,  and  if  Jim  hadn't  trusted 
him.  He  couldn't  quite  make  up  his  mind  to  go  back 
on  his  friend. 

Better  heads  than  Huckleberry  Finn's  have  been 
puzzled  over  the  problems  of  friendship  and  have  failed 
as  ignominiously  when  they  have  attempted  a  formal 
solution.  For  a  friend  is  always  an  exception  to  the 
abstract  laws  which  our  reason  accepts.  We  confess 
this  when  we  say  that  we  are  "partial"  to  certain  per- 
sons. We  are  not  willing  to  hand  them  over  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  universal  law.  We  want  to  shield 
them,  and  to  give  them  a  little  better  chance, 
viii 


Introduction 

It  is  not  that  our  friends  are  wiser  and  better  than 
other  people,  but  that  we  know  them  better.  The 
accident  of  contiguity  may  have  first  given  them  a  place 
in  our  affections,  but  now  they  cannot  be  removed  from 
that  place  without  causing  us  pain.  They  make  our 
familiar  world.  They  are  a  part  of  our  environment  to 
which  we  have  become  happily  wonted.  We  take  them 
as  they  are,  with  the  frank  acknowledgment  that  to  us 
they  are  not  as  other  men  are,  but  form  a  privileged  class. 
We  find  it  easy  to  forgive  their  shortcomings,  and  their 
good  points  are  all  the  better  because  they  belong  to 
them.  Nor  are  we  satisfied  with  thinking  of  them  as 
unrelated  personaHties.  We  take  them  into  our  hearts 
with  all  their  natural  belongings.  We  want  to  know 
their  brothers  and  their  sisters,  and  to  have  them  drop 
in  to  see  us. 

But  after  all,  Emerson's  idea  of  friendship  and  Huckle- 
berry Finn's  meet  at  the  essential  point.  Friendship 
is  "attachment"  and  not  detachment.  A  friend  is  one 
to  whom  we  are  pleasantly  drawn.  "It  wasn't  any 
trouble"  to  have  old  Jim  on  the  raft,  and  it  would  have 
been  very  lonesome  to  have  him  taken  away. 

A  friend  is  one  whom  you  like  to  have  with  you  when 
you  are  doing  what  you  most  like  to  do.  If  what  you 
most  hke  to  do  is  to  dwell  upon  the  ideally  perfect,  your 
friend  is  the  one  who  meets  you  in  these  rare  moments. 
The  vision  of  spiritual  beauty  is  not  more  than  half  real 
till  it  is  shared  with  him.  In  the  consciousness  that 
another  mind  reflects  your  thought,  you  find  the  keenest 
satisfaction.  Here  is  the  high  office  of  a  friend,  and  in 
these  high  experiences  is  the  point  of  attachment. 

But  because  thou  art  virtuous,  shall  Friendship  have 


Introduction 

no  cakes  and  ale  for  those  less  highly  endowed  ?  Happily, 
Friendship  is  the  most  accommodating  of  all  the  virtues. 
She  is  easy  to  be  entreated  and  has  something  for  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  Personal  attachments  are 
within  the  reach  of  the  humblest.  If  our  idea  of  per- 
fect bliss  is  to  go  fishing,  and  loaf  in  the  woods,  and  float 
down  a  river  on  a  raft,  we  may  still  have  a  friend.  He  is 
the  one  whose  presence  is  no  intrusion,  and  whose  con- 
versation conveys  no  reproach.  Are  we  lazy,  so  is  he; 
are  we  hungry,  he  also  enjoys  his  victuals.  If  the  world 
be  against  us,  all  the  more  do  we  draw  together.  To 
hate  the  same  people  and  to  reject  their  advice  is  a  real 
bond. 

Friendship  rises  into  the  heights  of  disinterested 
virtue,  but  it  begins  where  life  begins.  It  is  mingled 
with  the  earUest  experience,  and  it  exists  among  the 
ferocities  of  the  primitive  struggle  for  existence.  St. 
Augustine,  referring  to  Virgil's  story  of  the  unsocial 
giant  Cacus  dwelling  in  his  dreary  cavern  without  wife 
or  child  or  friend,  said:  "It  is  better  to  beheve  that  such 
a  man,  or  semi-man,  never  existed,  and  that  this  in  com- 
mon with  many  other  fancies  of  the  poets  is  a  mere 
fiction.  For  the  most  savage  animals  encompass  their 
own  species  with  a  ring  of  protecting  peace."  .  .  . 
What  tigress  does  not  gently  purr  over  her  cubs  and  lay 
aside  her  ferocity  to  fondle  them.  What  kite,  solitary 
as  he  is  when  circling  over  his  prey,  does  not  seek  a  mate 
to  build  the  nest  and  maintain  peace. 

Friendships  have  been  formed  not  alone  by  the  fire- 
side of  the  home  or  in  some  sacred  place,  but  by  soldiers 
on  the  march,  by  wanderers  on  the  highways,  by  boys 
roving  the  streets  in  gangs,  by  pirates  upon  the  high 

X 


Introduction 

seas,  by  scholars,  and  by  men  of  affairs.  Wherever 
there  is  "something  doing,"  the  law  of  friendship  asserts 
itself.  The  laws  of  evolutionary  progress  favor  it. 
The  unfriendly  deed  is  barren.  Friendly  cooperation 
multipUes  power.  A  company  of  friends  conscious  of 
a  common  purpose,  trusting  each  other,  and  subordinat- 
ing individual  preferences  can  achieve  success. 

In  the  third  and  fourth  centuries,  piety  took  an  un- 
social, not  to  say  a  morose,  form.  The  idea  was  to  get 
away  from  the  wicked  world  and  renounce  one's  natural 
relations.  Hundreds  of  ascetics  fled  from  their  homes 
to  the  deserts  of  Egypt  in  search  of  a  sohtary  goodness. 
The  sand  hills  were  honeycombed  with  the  cells  of  these 
hermits.  But  by  and  by  human  nature  asserted  itself. 
The  anchorite  who  had  fled  from  his  neighbors  couldn't 
prevent  them  from  following  his  example.  The  desert 
began  to  be  p)opulous.  It  was  a  great  experience  for 
the  unsocial  saint  when  he  discovered  that  the  other 
saint  whom  he  met  every  morning  at  the  well  was 
not  such  a  bad  fellow  after  all.  So  after  a  while  all  the 
cells  came  to  be  under  one  roof,  and  spiritual  isolation 
gave  way  to  the  organized  friendliness  of  the  monasteries. 

Human  hfe,  hke  all  other  Ufe,  has  from  some  stand- 
f)oints  a  sinister  aspect.  There  seems  to  be  a  natural 
hostility  between  all  living  creatures.  Their  interests 
seem  necessarily  to  conflict.  One  species  devours  an- 
other. One  individual  of  the  species  crowds  out  others 
who  are  less  fit  for  the  struggle.  Friendship  at  first 
seems  but  a  feeble  and  futile  protest  against  a  grim 
reality.  It  is  the  expression  of  a  personal  preference. 
Before  the  bar  of  Necessity  it  pleads  for  tender  treat- 
ment for  a  few  whom  we  may  have  happened  to  know 
xi 


Introduction 

intimately.  "These  are  my  friends,  deal  gently  with 
them."    As  if  it  mattered. 

But  the  wonderful  thing  is  that  it  does  matter.  Friend- 
ship, at  the  beginning  so  narrow  in  its  scope  and  so 
fitful  in  its  action,  grows  at  last  into  a  world  power. 
If  conditions  are  hard,  it  creates  new  conditions.  It 
becomes  a  creative  force.  What  are  we  working  for  but 
to  make  the  world  a  better  place  for  our  friends  to  live 
in? 

"Love  from  its  awful  throae  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart," 

is  all  the  time  working  toward  this  end.  Already  human 
institutions  have  a  more  friendly  aspect.  There  is  a 
world-wide  conspiracy  against  those  cruel  powers  which 
have  for  ages  held  sway.  We  are  coming  to  believe  that 
the  friendly  way  is  also  the  strong  and  wise  way. 

It  is  because  of  this  that  a  Book  of  Friendship  is  a 
Primer  of  Civilization.  It  contains  the  first  lessons  which 
must  be  learned  by  those  who  would  work  for  a  better 
social  order.  All  the  high  loyalties  rest  on  one  dis- 
covery —  the  discovery  of  the  worth  of  a  friend.  It  is 
surely  worth  our  while  to  learn  as  much  as  possible  of 
the  lore  of  the  heart. 

Samuel  McChord  Crothers 


zu 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 


PACK 

Samuel  Mc Chord  Crothers      v 


I 


CHILDHOOD   FRIENDSHIPS 


To  Alison  Cunningham 

Braddan  Vicarage 

The  French  Tambour 

In  School  Days    , 

In  a  Garden 

Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Marjorie  Fleming 

Sunshine 

Enoch  Arden 

We  once  were  Children 

Leolin  and  Edith 

The  Little  Veronica 

The  Unseen  Playmate 

The  Lost  Friend 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson  5 

.    T.  E.  Brown  5 

Heinrich  Heine  7 

John  G.  Whittier  8 

A.  C.  Swinburne  10 

Dr.  John  Brown  II 

A.  C.  Swinburne  17 

Alfred  Tennyson  18 

Heinrich  Heine  19 

Alfred  Tennyson  20 

Heinrich  Heine  22 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  23 

.  Norman  Gale  24 


II 


INARTICULATE   FRIENDSHIPS 


The  Bluefinch  . 
The  Faithful  Bird 
Poor  Dog  Tray  . 
Rab  and  His  Friends  . 
For  the  Love  of  a  Man 
The  Blood  Horse 
Modestine 


William  Cowper 

Thomas  Campbell 

Dr.  John  Brown 

Jack  Loudon 

Barry  Cornwall 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


29 
30 
31 
32 
39 
46 

47 


Contents 


A  Night  with  a  Wolf . 
Friends  in  Prison 
Epitaph  on  a  Hare 
The  Friendship  of  Books 


PAGE 

Bayard  Taylor     52 
Silvio  Pellico 
William  Cowper 
Frederick  Denison  Maurice 


The  Hills  of  the  South  Country 


Hilaire  Belloc 


III 


IN   SCHOOL  AND 
Dear  Old  Yale     . 
The  Orange  and  the  Black 
In  Arcadie 

Trinity  College,  Cambridge 
Friends  of  Youth 
Christ's  Hospital  Boys 
A  Father's  Caution  to  His  Son 
A  Test  of  Friendship  , 
Our  Oldest  Friend 
Tom  Brown's  First  Grief     . 


53 
54 
56 
59 


COLLEGE  YEARS 

.  //.  S.  Durand  65 

Clarence  R.  Mitchell  66 

Josephine  A.  Cass  67 

Alfred  Tennyson  68 

Aubrey  Thomas  de  Vere  70 

.    Charles  Lamb  71 

.  E.  L.  Voynich  74 

.    Cornhill  Magazine  75 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  79 

.  Thomas  Hughes  80 


IV 
NEIGHBORS 

Our  Village         ' Mary  Mitford    91 

Friendship  Village Zona  Gale  100 

Our  Village Thomas  Hood  io6 

England  to  America   .....    Alfred  Austin  no 
Charles  Lamb's  Nearest  Neighbor 

"  By  a  friend  of  the  late  Eli  a  "ill 
Who  is  My  Neighbor  ?  .  .  The  Gospel  of  St.  Luke  113 
A  Modern  Version       ....       Mary  Conyngton  1 14 


FRIENDS   IN  NEED 

A  Friend  in  Need        ....  Thomas  de  Quincey  119 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Kentucky      .         .     James  Lane  Allen  121 

xiv 


Contents 


Martha 

A  Merchant  of  Venice 
Sanctuary  in  Alsatia  . 
The  War  Correspondents 


PAGB 

.      Mrs.  Gaskell  125 

William  Shakespeare  1 31 

Sir  Walter  Scott  135 

Rudyard  Kipling  140 


VI 

BROTHERS  IN  ARMS 

Castor  and  Polydeukes        .         .         .  Odes  of  Pindar  149 

Damon  and  Pythias    ....  Charlotte  Yonge  151 

The  Covenant  of  David  and  Jonathan  Book  of  Judges  153 

Ossian's  "  Song  of  Sorrow  "         .         .     James  Macpherson  157 

A  Reconciliation  .         .         .      Robert  Louis  Stevenson  158 

As  Toilsome  I  wandered      .         .         .  Walt  Whitman  164 

Poets  as  Friends J-  A.  Taylor  164 

Song  of  a  Fellow  Worker    .         .         .A.  C  Shaughnessey  166 

D'Artagnan  joins  the  Musketeers         .     Alexandre  Dumas  169 

Amis  and  Amile  .         .         .         Old  French  Romance  176 


VII 

ODD   COMPANIONS 


Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza 

Jennie  Wren  and  Riah  the  Jew 

A  Genius  for  Friendship     . 

The  Rommany  Rye  and  the  Gypsy  Lad 

Uncle  Toby  and  Corporal  Trim 


Cervantes  183 

Charles  Dickens  187 

C.  T.  Winchester  191 

George  Borrow  194 

Laurence  Sterne  200 


VIII 

BOON  COMPANIONS 

Colonel  Newcome  in  the  Cave  of  I  larmony 

William  M.  Thackeray  211 
The  Reel  of  TuUochgorum  .         .         .    John  Skinner  222 

XV 


Contents 


The  Men  of  Gotham   . 
A  Wayfaring  Song 
Sarah  Gamp  and  Betsey  Prig 
The  Club     .... 
Auld  Lang  Syne 


PAGE 

.    W.  E.  Henley  223 

Henry  van  Dyke  224 

Charles  Dickens  225 

Washington  Irving  230 

.    Robert  Burns  236 


IX 

FRIENDSHIPS   BETWEEN   WOMEN 


Friendship  between  Women 
The  Greek  Gossips 
Hermia  and  Helena    . 
Sophie  and  Roxandra 


William  R.  Alger  241 

Theocritus  243 

William  Shakespeare  245 

William  R.  Alger  246 


Mme.  de  Stael  and  Mme,  de  Recamier  William  R.  Alger  249 
The  Portrait  of  a  Friend  .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  251 
Fanny  Squeers  and  Matilda  Price        .         Charles  Dickens  253 


PLATONIC   FRIENDSHIP 


Platonic  Friendship    . 
Madame  Recamier  and  Ballanche 
To  the  Countess  of  Abingdon     . 
William  Cowper  and  Mary  Unwin 
Platonic  Love    .... 
Rahel  Levin       .... 
To  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford    . 


.     /.  G.  L.  261 

William  R.  Alger  262 

John  Dryden  266 

Collated  267 

Coventry  Patmore  270 

Varnhagen  von  Ense  271 

Ben  Jon  son  272 


From  a  Letter  to  William  EUery  Channing         Lucy  Aikin  272 
To  a  Portrait  of  Isabel  Fenwick  William  Wordsworth  273 

From  Two  Famous  Letters  .         .     Goethe  and  Bettine  274 

To  Vittoria  Colonna    ....  Michael  Angelo  274 

The  Value  of  a  Woman's  Friendship 

Sir  Edward  Bukver  Lytton  275 
Pelisson  and  Mile,  de  Scudery    .         .      William  R.  Alger  276 
xvi 


Contents 


XI 

WHEN   FRIENDS  ARE   PARTED 

PAGB 

A  Bachelor's  Complaint  of  the  Behavior  of  Married  People 

Charles  Lamb  281 
Qua  Cursum  Ventus 
Friends  .  .  .  Old  Friends  . 
The  Two  Friends 
Dr.  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Thrale 
The  Materials  for  a  Violent  Quarrel 
The  Lost  Leader 
False  Friends       .... 
The  Death  of  Friends 
The  Pleasures  of  Memory    . 
David's  Lament-for  Jonathan 

Lycidas 

Musing  on  Companions  gone 
Losses  restored  .... 
Thyrsis  ..... 
In  Memoriam  .... 
Experto  Crede  .... 
The  Old  Familiar  Faces 


Arthur  Hugh  Clough  284 

.    W.  E.  Henley  285 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  287 

.  Austin  Dobson  287 

.    Alfred  Ainger  292 

Robert  Browning  293 

Edmund  Spenser  295 

Edward  Voung^  299 

Samuel  Rogers  300 

The  Book  of  Judges  301 

.      John  Milton  302 

Sir  Walter  Scott  304 

William  Shakespeare  304 

Matthew  Arnold  305 

Alfred  Tennyson  306 

E.  H.  Coleridge  307 

.    Charles  Lamb  308 


XII 

FRIENDSHIP 


Friendship 

The  Hare  with  Many  Friends 

Two  Views  of  Friendship    . 

On  P'riendship     . 

A  Friend     .... 

The  Memory  of  the  Heart  . 

The  Limitations  of  Friendship 

In  Haste     .... 


Montaigne  313 

John  Gay  314 

.     John  Wilson  316 

Allan  Ramsay  318 

Nicholas  Grimoald  318 

Daniel  Webster  319 

I/ugh  Black  319 

A.  E.  Housman  322 


XVU 


Contents 


The  Basis  of  Friendship 
Kindred  Hearts 
Friends  and  Enemies 
True  Love  is  Blind 
The  Masterpiece  of  Nature 


PAGE 

William  De  Witt  Hyde  323 

Felicia  Hemans  326 

.   Chven  Feltham  327 

Horace  328 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  329 


I 

CHILDHOOD   FRIENDSHIPS 


CHILDHOOD  FRIENDSHIPS 


■■•-.« 


To  Alison  Cunningham 
Braddan  Vicarage 
The  French  Tambour 
In  School  Days 
In  a  Garden 
Sir  Walter  Scott  and 
Marjorie  Fleming 
Sunshine 
Enoch  Arden 
We  once  were  Children 
Leolin  and  Edith 
The  Little  Veronica 
The  Unseen  Playmate 
The  Lost  friend 


« wnVv;..'J«'  .;:>.  :„u 


:'?-\    ■■■':.  ■    : 


IJ> 


y 


^^'•^     r 


!■'  -  jrf       ^  ^-  ^.-.y 


"No  fame,  were  the  best  less  brittle, 
No  praise,  were  it  wide  as  earth, 
Is  worth  so  much  as  a  little 
Child's  love  may  be  worth." 

A.  C.  Swinburne 


To  Alison  Cunningham     ^c:-     ^c^y    '<;>     ^cy    -^y 

From  her  Boy 

"POR  the  long  nights  you  lay  awake 
-■-     And  watched  for  my  unworthy  sake : 
For  your  most  comfortable  hand 
That  led  me  through  the  uneven  land : 
For  all  the  story-books  you  read : 
For  all  the  pains  you  comforted : 
For  all  you  pitied,  aU  you  bore, 
In  sad  and  happy  days  of  yore :  — 
My  second  Mother,  my  first  Wife, 
The  angel  of  my  infant  life  — 
From  the  sick  child,  now  well  and  old, 
Take,  nurse,  the  Uttle  book  you  hold ! 

And  grant  it,  Heaven,  that  all  who  read 
May  find  as  dear  a  nurse  at  need, 
And  every  child  who  hsts  my  rhyme, 
In  the  bright,  fireside,  nursery  chme, 
May  hear  it  in  as  kind  a  voice 
As  made  my  childish  days  rejoice  ! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


Braddan  Vicarage     -o^     'Cv     ^;i>.     ^^y     <:>     ^^ 

T  WONDER  if  in  that  far  isle, 
■*-     Some  child  is  growing  now,  like  me 
When  I  was  child  :  care-pricked,  yet  healed  the  while 
With  balm  of  rock  and  sea. 

5 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

I  wonder  if  the  purple  ring 

That  rises  on  a  belt  of  blue 
Provokes  the  little  bashful  thing 

To  guess  what  may  ensue, 
When  he  has  pierced  the  screen,  and  holds  the  fxirther  clue. 


I  wonder  if  the  hills  are  long  and  lonely 
That  North  from  South  divide  ; 

I  wonder  if  he  thinks  that  it  is  only 
The  hither  slope  where  men  abide. 

Unto  all  mortal  homes  refused  the  other  side. 


I  wonder  if  to  him  "the  Boat,"  descending 

From  the  proud  East,  his  spirit  fills 
With  a  strange  joy,  adventurous  ardor  lending 

To  the  mute  soul  that  thrills 
As  booms  the  herald  gun,  and  westward  wakes  the  hills. 

I  wonder  if  he  loves  that  Captain  bold 

Who  has  the  horny  hand, 
Who  swears  the  mighty  oath,  who  well  can  hold, 

Half-drunk,  serene  command. 
And  guide  his  straining  bark  to  refuge  of  the  land. 

I  wonder  if  he  thinks  the  world  has  aught 

Of  strong,  or  nobly  wise. 
Like  him  by  whom  the  invisible  land  is  caught 

With  instinct  true,  nor  storms,  nor  midnight  skies 
Avert  the  settled  aim,  or  davmt  the  keen  emprise. 

T.  E.  Brown 
6 


Childhood  Friendships 


The  French  Tambour       ^c>y     <:iy     -o     ^c>     -c> 

TDARBLEU !  how  much  I  owe  the  French  tambour 
-*■  who  was  so  long  billeted  on  us,  looked  like  a  very 
devil,  and  yet  was  such  an  angelic  character,  and  such 
an  incomparable  drummer. 

A  little  nervous  figure,  never  still  for  an  instant ;  a 
fierce  black  mustache,  beneath  which  the  red  lips  curled 
defiantly ;   fiery  eyes  which  glanced  hither  and  thither. 

With  all  a  small  boy's  devotion  I  stuck  to  him  like  a 
burr,  helped  him  to  polish  his  buttons  till  they  shone  like 
mirrors,  and  to  pipeclay  his  waistcoat,  for  Monsieur  Le 
Grand  was  somewhat  of  a  dandy,  and  I  followed  him, 
hke  a  dog,  on  guard,  to  the  roll-call,  to  parade  —  all, 
then,  was  glitter  and  gladness,  now,  les  jours  de  fete  sont 
passis  I  Monsieiu*  Le  Grand  only  knew  a  little  broken 
German  —  only  the  indispensable  phrases,  Brot,  Kuss, 
Ehre  —  but  he  could  make  himself  perfectly  understood 
on  the  dnmi.  For  instance,  when  I  did  not  know  the 
meaning  of  liberty,  he  would  beat  the  Marseillaise,  and 
I  understood  him.  If  I  did  not  know  what  6galilS 
meant,  he  played  the  march  (^a  ira,  qa  ira  .  .  .  les 
aristocrats  d  la  lanternel  and  I  imderstood  him.  If 
I  did  not  know  the  German  for  bMse,  he  beat  the  Des- 
sau March,  which  we  Germans,  as  even  Goethe  allows, 
beat  in  Champagne,  and  I  understood  him.  Once  he 
wanted  to  explain  to  me  the  word  Allemagne,  and  he 
beat  a  very  primitive  simple  measure  which  is  often 
played  at  fairs  for  dogs  to  dance  to,  the  tune  of 
dum,  dum,  dum;  I  was  very  angry,  but  still  I  under- 
stood him. 

Heinrich  Heine 

7 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


In  School  Days     ^^:b'     -o     -cy     <2y     -"^^      -^cv 

OTILL  sits  the  schoolhouse  by  the  road, 
^  A  ragged  beggar  sunning ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 
And  blackberry- vines  are  running. 


Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 

The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  siU,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls. 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving. 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled ; 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 
8 


Childhood  Friendships 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 

To  right  and  left,  he  lingered;  — 
As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  Hf t  her  eyes ;  he  felt 

The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 
And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 

As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word: 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell,  — 

"Because,  you  see,  I  love  you!" 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 

That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 
Dear  girl!  the  grasses  on  her  grave 

Have  forty  years  been  growing! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school. 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss. 

Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 

John  G.  WhiUiei 


T 


HE  child  alone  is  the  true  democrat ; 
to  him  only  is  every  one  he  meets  a  friend. 

Anonymous. 

9 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


In  a  Garden     ''^^y     'Qy     ^v>      <:::>     -^^y     ^^^ 


I 


HEAR  of  two  far  hence 

In  a  garden  met, 
And  the  fragrance  blown  from  thence 
Fades  not  yet. 

The  one  is  seven  years  old, 

And  my  friend  is  he : 
But  the  years  of  the  other  have  told 

Eighty-three. 

To  hear  these  twain  converse 

Or  to  see  them  greet 
Were  sweeter  than  softest  verse 

May  be  sweet. 

The  hoar  old  gardener  there 

With  an  eye  more  mild 
Perchance  than  his  mild  white  hair 

Meets  the  chUd. 

I  had  rather  hear  the  words 

That  the  twain  exchange 
Than  the  songs  of  all  the  birds 

There  that  range, 

Call,  chirp,  and  twitter  there 

Through  the  garden-beds 
Where  the  sun  alike  sees  fair 

Those  two  heads  — 
lo 


Childhood  Friendships 

And  which  may  holier  be 
Held  in  heaven  of  those 
Or  more  worth  heart's  thanks  to  see 
No  man  knows. 
1881.  A.  C.  Swinburne 


Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Marjorie  Fleming  ^^    ^c> 

OIR  WALTER  sat  down  in  his  large  green  morocco 
*^  elbow-chair,  drew  himself  close  to  his  table,  and 
glowered  and  gloomed  at  his  writing  apparatus,  "a  very 
handsome  old  box,  richly  carved,  Hned  with  crimson  velvet, 
and  containing  ink-bottles,  taper-stand,  etc.,  in  silver,  the 
whole  in  such  order,  that  it  might  have  come  from  the 
silversmith's  window  half  an  hour  before."  He  took 
out  his  paper,  then  starting  up  angrily,  said,  "  '  Go  spin, 
you  jade,  go  spin.'    No,  d —  it,  it  won't  do,  — 

'"My  spinnin'  wheel  is  auld  and  stiff, 
The  rock  o't  wunna  stand,  sir, 
To  keep  the  temper-pin  in  tiff 
Employs  ower  aft  my  hand,  sir.' 

I  am  off  the  fang.  I  can  make  nothing  of  Waverley  to-day; 
I'll  awa'  to  Marjorie.  Come  wi'  me,  Maida,  you  thief." 
The  great  creature  rose  slowly,  and  the  pair  were  off, 
Scott  taking  a  maud  (a  plaid)  with  him.  "  White  as  a 
frosted  plum-cake,  by  jingo!"  said  he,  when  he  got  to 
the  street.  Maida  gamboled  and  whisked  among  the 
snow,  and  her  master  strode  across  to  Young  Street,  and 
through  it  to  i  North  Charlotte  Street,  to  the  house  of 
his  dear  friend,  Mrs.  William  Keith,  of  Corstorphine 
Hill,  niece  of  Mrs.  Keith,  of  Ravelston,  of  whom  he  said 
II 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

at  her  death,  eight  years  after,  "  Much  tradition,  and  that 
of  the  best,  has  died  with  this  excellent  old  lady,  one  of 
the  few  persons  whose  spirit  and  cleanliness  and  fresh- 
ness of  mind  and  body  made  old  age  lovely  and  desirable." 

Sir  Walter  was  in  that  house  almost  every  day,  and 
had  a  key,  so  in  he  and  the  hound  went,  shaking  them- 
selves in  the  lobby.  "Marjorie!  Marjorie!"  shouted 
her  friend,  "where  are  ye,  my  bonnie  wee  croodUn  doo  ?" 
In  a  moment  a  bright,  eager  child  of  seven  was  in  his 
arms,  and  he  was  kissing  her  aU  over.  Out  came  Mrs. 
Keith.  "Come  yer  ways  in,  Wattie."  "No,  not  now. 
I  am  going  to  take  Marjorie  wi'  me,  and  you  may  come 
to  your  tea  in  Duncan  Roy's  sedan,  and  bring  the  bairn 
home  in  your  lap."  "Tak'  Marjorie,  and  it  on-ding  o' 
snaw!"  said  Mrs.  Keith.  He  said  to  himself,  "On- 
ding,  —  that's  odd,  —  that  is  the  very  word."  "Hoot, 
awa!  look  here,"  and  he  displayed  the  corner  of  his 
plaid,  made  to  hold  lambs  (the  true  shepherd's  plaid, 
consisting  of  two  breadths  sewed  together,  and  uncut 
at  one  end,  making  a  poke  or  cul  de  sac).  "Tak'  yer 
lamb,"  said  she,  laughing  at  the  contrivance,  and  so  the 
Pet  was  first  well  happit  up,  and  then  put  up,  laughing 
silently,  into  the  plaid  neuk,  and  the  shepherd  strode 
off  with  his  lamb,  —  Maida  gamboling  through  the  snow, 
and  running  races  in  her  mirth. 

Didn't  he  face  "the  angry  airt,"  and  make  her  bield 
his  bosom,  and  into  his  own  room  with  her,  and  lock  the 
door,  and  out  with  the  warm,  rosy,  little  wifie,  who  took 
it  all  with  great  composure!  There  the  two  remained 
for  three  or  more  hours,  making  the  house  ring  with 
their  laughter ;  you  can  fancy  the  big  man's  and  Maidie's 
laugh.    Having  made  the  fire  cheery,  he  set  her  down 

12 


Childhood  Friendships 

in  his  ample  chair,  and  standing  sheepishly  before  her, 
began  to  say  his  lesson,  which  happened  to  be,  —  "Zic- 
cotty,  diccotty,  dock,  the  mouse  ran  up  the  clock,  the 
clock  struck  wan,  down  the  mouse  ran,  ziccotty,  diccotty, 
dock."  This  done  repeatedly  till  she  was  pleased,  she 
gave  him  his  new  lesson,  gravely  and  slowly,  timing  it 
upon  her  small  fingers,  —  he  saying  it  after  her,  — 

"Wonery,  twoery,  tickery,  seven; 
Alibi,  crackaby,  ten,  and  eleven ; 
Pin,  pan,  musky,  dan; 
Tweedle-um,  twoddle-um. 
Twenty-wan;  eerie,  one,  ourie. 
You,  are,  out." 

He  pretended  to  great  difiiculty,  and  she  rebuked  him 
with  most  comical  gravity,  treating  him  as  a  child.  He 
used  to  say  that  when  he  came  to  AJibi  Crackaby  he 
broke  down,  and  Pin-Pan,  Musky-Dan,  Tweedle-mn, 
Twoddle-um  made  him  roar  with  laughter.  He  said 
Musky-Dan  especially  was  beyond  endurance,  bringing 
up  an  Irishman  and  his  hat  fresh  from  the  Spice  Islands 
and  odoriferous  Ind ;  she  getting  quite  bitter  in  her  dis- 
pleasure at  his  ill-behavior  and  stupidness. 

Then  he  would  read  ballads  to  her  in  his  own  glorious 
way,  the  two  getting  wild  with  excitement  over  GU 
M Office  or  the  Bafon  of  SntaUholm;  and  he  would  take 
her  on  his  knee,  and  ma^e  her  repeat  Constance's  speeches 
in  King  John,  till  he  swayed  to  and  fro,  sobbing  his  fill. 
Fancy  the  gifted  httle  creature,  like  one  possessed, 
repeating,  — 

"  For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears. 

Oppressed  with  wrong,  and  therefore  full  of  fears; 

A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears; 

A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears. 

13 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

"If  thou  that  bidst  me  be  content,  wert  grim. 
Ugly  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb. 
Lame,  fooUsh,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious"  — 

Or  drawing  herself  up  "to  the    height  of    her    great 
argument,"  — 

"I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud, 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
Here  I  and  sorrow  sit." 

Scott  used  to  say  that  he  was  amazed  at  her  power 
over  him,  saying  to  Mrs.  Keith,  "She's  the  most  extraor- 
dinary creature  I  ever  met  with,  and  her  repeating  of 
Shakespeare  overpowers  me  as  nothing  else  does."  .  .  . 

Here  is  Maidie's  first  letter  before  she  was  six,  the 
spelling  unaltered,  and  there  are  no  "commoes." 

"  My  dear  Isa,  —  I  now  sit  down  to  answer  all  your 
kind  and  beloved  letters  which  you  was  so  good  as  to 
write  to  me.  This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  wrote  a  letter 
in  my  Life.  There  are  a  great  many  Girls  in  the  Square 
and  they  cry  just  like  a  pig  when  we  are  under  the  painful 
necessity  of  putting  it  to  Death.  Miss  Potune  a  Lady 
of  my  acquaintance  praises  me  dreadfully.  I  repeated 
something  out  of  Dean  Swift,  and  she  said  I  was  fit  for 
the  stage,  and  you  may  think  I  was  primmed  up  with 
majestick  Pride,  but  upon  my  word  I  felt  myselfe  turn 
a  little  birsay  —  birsay  is  a  word  which  is  a  word  that 
William  composed  which  is  as  you  may  suppose  a  little 
enraged.  This  horrid  fat  simpliton  says  that  my  Aunt 
is  beautiful!  which  is  intirely  impossible  for  that  is  not 
her  nature."  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Here  are  bits  from  her  Diary  at  Braehead :  — 
"The  day  of  my  existence  here  has  been  delightful  and 
14 


Childhood  Friendships 

enchanting.  On  Saturday  I  expected  no  less  than  three 
well-made  Bucks  the  names  of  whom  is  here  advertised. 
Mr.  Geo.  Crakey  (Craigie),  and  Wm.  Keith  and  Jn. 
Keith  —  the  first  is  the  funniest  of  every  one  of  them. 
Mr.  Crakey  and  (I)  walked  to  Crakyhall  (Craigiehall) 
hand  in  hand  in  Innocence  and  matitation  (meditation) 
sweet  thinking  on  the  kind  love  which  flows  in  our  tender 
hearted  mind  which  is  overflowing  with  majestic 
pleasure  no  one  was  ever  so  polite  to  me  in  the  hole 
state  of  my  existence.  Mr.  Craky  you  must  know  is  a 
great  Buck  and  pretty  good-looking. 

"I  am  at  Ravelston  enjoying  nature's  fresh  air.  The 
birds  are  singing  sweetly  —  the  calf  doth  frisk  and  nature 
shows  her  glorious  face." 

Here  is  a  confession:  —  "I  confess  I  have  been  very 
more  like  a  little  young  divil  than  a  creature  for  when 
Isabella  went  up  stairs  to  teach  me  religion  and  my 
multiplication  and  to  be  good  and  all  my  other  lessons 
I  stamped  with  my  foot  and  threw  my  new  hat  which 
she  had  made  on  the  ground  and  was  sulky  and  was 
dreadfully  passionate,  but  she  never  whiped  me  but  said 
Marjory  go  into  another  room  and  think  what  a  great 
crime  you  are  committing  letting  your  temper  git  the 
better  of  you.  But  I  went  so  sulkily  that  the  Devil 
got  the  better  of  me  but  she  never  never  whips  me  so 
that  I  think  I  would  be  the  better  of  it  and  the  next 
time  that  I  behave  ill  I  think  she  should  do  it  for  she 
never  does  it.  ...  •  Isabella  has  given  me  praise  for 
checking  my  temper  for  I  was  sulky  even  when  she  was 
kneeling  an  hole  hour  teaching  me  to  write." 

Our  poor  little  wifie,  she  has  no  doubts  of  the  personality 
of  the  Devil!    "Yesterday  I  behave  extremely  ill  in 

IS 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

God's  most  holy  church  for  I  would  never  attend  myself 
nor  let  Isabella  attend  which  was  a  great  crime  for  she 
often  tells  me  that  when  to  or  three  are  geathered  to- 
gether God  is  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  it  was  the  very 
same  Divil  that  tempted  Job  that  tempted  me  I  am  sure ; 
but  he  resisted  Satan  though  he  had  boils  and  many 
many  other  misfortunes  which  I  have  escaped.  .  .  . 
I  am  now  going  to  tell  you  the  horible  and  wretched 
plaege  (plague)  that  my  multipUcation  gives  me  you  can't 
conceive  it  the  most  Devilish  thing  is  8  times  8  and  7 
times  7  it  is  what  nature  itself  cant  endure." 

This  is  delicious;  and  what  harm  is  there  in  her 
"Devilish"?  it  is  strong  language  merely;  even  old 
Rowland  Hill  used  to  say  "he  grudged  the  Devil  those 
rough  and  ready  words."  .  .  . 

.  .  .  She  seems  now,  when  still  about  six,  to  have 
broken  out  into  song : — 


'Ephibol   (Epigram    or    Epitaph  —  Who  Knows    Which)    on 
MY  Dear  Love  Isabella 

"Here  lies  sweet  Isabell  in  bed, 

With  a  night-cap  on  her  head ; 

Her  skin  is  soft,  her  face  is  fair, 
And  she  has  very  pretty  hair; 

She  and  I  in  bed  lies  nice. 

And  undisturbed  by  rats  or  mice ; 

She  is  disgusted  with  Mr.  Worgan, 

Though  he  plays  upon  the  organ. 

Her  nails  are  neat,  her  teeth"  are  white, 

Her  eyes  are  very,  very  bright, 

In  a  conspicuous  town  she  lives. 

And  to  the  poor  her  money  gives : 

Here  ends  sweet  Isabella's  story. 
And  may  it  be  much  to  her  glory." 

16 


Childhood  Friendships 

Here  are  some  bits  at  random :  — 

"Of  summer  I  am  very  fond, 
And  love  to  bathe  into  a  pond ; 
The  look  of  sunshine  dies  away, 
And  will  not  let  me  out  to  play ; 
I  love  the  morning's  sun  to  spy 
Glittering  through  the  casement's  eye. 
The  rays  of  light  are  very  sweet. 
And  puts  away  the  taste  of  meat ; 
The  balmy  breeze  comes  down  from  heaven. 
And  makes  us  like  for  to  be  living. 

"The  casawary  is  an  curious  bird,  and  so  is  the  gigantic 
crane,  and  the  pelican  of  the  wilderness,  whose  mouth 
holds  a  bucket  of  fish  and  water.  Fighting  is  what 
ladies  is  not  qualyfied  for,  they  would  not  make  a  good 
figure  in  battle  or  in  a  duel.  Alas!  we  females  are  of 
little  use  to  our  country."  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Do  we  make  too  much  of  this  little  child,  who 
has  been  in  her  grave  in  Abbotshall  Kirkyard  these 
fifty  and  more  years  ?  We  may  of  her  cleverness,  — 
not  of  her  affectionateness,  her  nature.  What  a  picture 
the  animosa  infans  gives  us  of  herself !  .  .  .  We  don't 
wonder  Walter  Scott  carried  her  off  in  the  neuk  of  his 
plaid,  and  played  himself  with  her  for  hours. 

Dr.  John  Brown 

Sunshine     <:>      "^     ''^^      <:>     ''^      ^=^     ^^^ 

TV /TY  friend  peers  in  on  me  with  merry 
iVl  \Yige  face,  and  though  the  sky  stay  dim, 
The  very  light  of  day,  the  very 
Sun's  self  comes  in  with  him. 

A.  C.  Swinburne 
c  17 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Enoch  Arden        <^     <^     ^^     "^^      ^^     ^^ 

T   ONG  lines  of  cliflf  breaking  have  left  a  chasm ; 
■'— '  And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow  sands ; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In  cluster ;  then  a  moulder'd  church ;  and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd  mill ; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows ;  and  a  hazelwood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hoUow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  damsel  in  the  port. 
And  Philip  Ray  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Encch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad. 
Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck,  play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing-nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  updrawn ; 
And  built  their  castles  in  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow 'd,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping  house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next. 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress ;  but  at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week : 
"  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife." 
"  Mine  too,"  said  Phihp,  "  turn  and  turn  about :  " 
i8 


Childhood  Friendships 

When,  if  they  quarrell'd,  Enoch  stronger-made 
Was  master :  then  would  Phihp,  his  blue  eyes 
Al!  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears, 
Shriek  out,  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at  this 
The  httle  wife  would  weep  for  company, 
And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her  sake, 
And  say  she  would  be  httle  wife  to  both. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


M 


We  once  were  Children         -oy     -v^     ^^b.     ^c^y 

[Y  child,  we  once  were  children, 
Two  children,  little  and  gay ; 
We  crawl'd  inside  the  henhouse, 
And  hid  in  the  straw  in  play. 

We  crow'd  as  the  cocks  are  accustom'd, 

And  when  the  people  came  by, 
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"  —  and  they  fancied 

'Twas  really  the  cock's  shrill  cry. 

The  chests  within  our  courtyard 

With  paper  we  nicely  Uned, 
And  in  them  hved  together. 

In  a  dwelling  quite  to  our  mind. 

The  aged  cat  of  our  neighbor 

Came  oft  to  visit  us  there; 
We  made  her  our  bows  and  our  curtsies. 

And  plenty  of  compliments  fair. 

For  her  health  we  used  to  inquire 

In  language  friendly  and  soft ; 
Since  then  we  have  ask'd  the  same  question 

Of  many  old  cats  full  oft. 

19 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

We  used  to  sit,  while  we  wisely 
Discoursed,  in  the  way  of  old  men, 

And  lamented  that  all  was  better 
In  the  olden  days  than  then ; 

How  love  and  truth  and  religion 

From  out  of  the  world  had  fled, 
How  very  dear  was  the  coffee. 

How  scarce  was  the  gold,  we  said. 

Those  childish  sports  have  vanish'd. 

And  all  is  fast  roUing  away ; 
The  world,  and  the  times,  and  religion, 

And  gold,  love,  and  truth  all  decay. 

Eeinrich  Heine 

Leolin  and  Edith      ^;::y      ^o     ^ci^      <:iy      -"^i.. 

O  ANGUINE  he  was :  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
'^  Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek ;  and  eager  eyes,  that  still 
Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful,  beam'd 
Beneath  a  mane  like  mass  of  rolling  gold, 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt  on  hers, 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else. 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro. 
We  know  not  wherefore ;  bounteously  made. 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a  day, 
A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first. 
20 


Childhood  Friendships 

Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after  hers : 
So  much  the  boy  foreran ;  but  when  his  date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates,  he 
(Since  Averill  was  a  decad  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and  roU'd 
His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone  swing, 
Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy-chain,  arranged 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept  it  green 
In  hving  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show'd  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the  grass, 
The  httle  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  pahns, 
The  pretty  mare's-tail  forest,  fairy  pines, 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows  aim'd 
All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting :  make-believes 
For  Edith  and  himself :  or  else  he  forged, 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  true  love 
Crown'd  after  trial ;  sketches  rude  and  faint, 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college-times 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang. 
Or  Heaven  in  lavish  bounty  moulded,  grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman-grown, 
He  wasted  hours  with  Averill ;  there,  when  first 
The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 

21 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That  soon  should  wear  the  garland ;   there  again 
When  burr  and  bine  were  gather'd ;  lastly  there 
At  Christmas ;  ever  welcome  at  the  Hall. 

Alfred  Tennyson 

The  Little  Veronica      <ix     -o^     ^cy     <:>     -si^ 

T  AM  a  child  again,  playing  with  other  children  on  the 
-'■  Schloss-platz  at  Diisseldorf  on  the  Rhine.  .  .  . 

O  God!  once  the  world  was  so  glorious,  and  the  birds 
sang  Thy  everlasting  praises,  and  the  little  Veronica 
gazed  at  me  with  her  quiet  eyes,  and  we  sat  before  the 
marble  statue  on  the  Schloss-platz.  On  one  side  of  it 
is  the  old  ruined  castle  which  is  haunted  by  a  headless 
lady  in  a  black  sUk  dress  with  a  long  rustling  train ;  on  the 
other  side  is  a  high,  white  building,  the  upper  chambers 
bright  with  gay  pictures  in  golden  frames;  on  the  ground 
floor  thousands  of  huge  tomes,  which  the  little  Veronica 
and  I  so  often  marvelled  at  when  the  good  Ursula 
lifted  us  up  to  peep  in  at  the  big  windows.  Later  on, 
when  I  had  grown  a  big  boy,  I  used  to  chmb  every  day 
the  tallest  steps  in  that  Ubrary  and  get  down  the  tallest 
books,  and  read  so  deeply  that  I  was  afraid  of  nothing, 
least  of  all  of  headless  ladies,  and  got  so  clever  that  I 
forgot  all  the  old  games  and  stories  and  pictures  and  the 
h'ttle  Veronica,  and  even  her  name.  .  .  . 

You  can  hardly  picture,  Madame,  how  beautiful  the 
h'ttle  Veronica  looked  as  she  lay  in  her  little  coffin.  The 
burning  tapers  which  stood  round  cast  their  shimmer  over 
the  pale,  smiling  child's  face,  and  the  red  silk  rosebuds 
and  rustUng  tinsel  with  which  the  little  head  and  \hi 
22 


Childhood  Friendships 

white  shroud  were  tricked  out.  The  good  Ursula  had 
led  me  at  night  into  the  silent  chamber,  and  when  I  saw 
the  httle  corpse  with  the  taper  and  flowers  laid  out  on 
the  table,  I  thought  at  first  it  was  the  waxen  image  of 
some  saint;  but  soon  I  recognized  the  dear  features, 
and  asked  laughingly  why  little  Veronica  lay  so  quiet, 
and  Ursula  answered,  "  She's  dead." 

And  when  she  said,  "She's  dead," — but  I  will  not 
finish  the  story  to-day;  it  would  take  too  long,  and  I 
should  have  to  tell  you  first  about  the  lame  jackdaw 
who  used  to  limp  about  the  Schloss-platz,  and  was  three 
hundred  years  old,  and  I  might  grow  melancholy.  The 
humor  takes  me  to  tell  another  story,  which  is  both 
humorous  and  appropriate,  for  it  is  the  very  story  I 
intended  to  set  forth  in  this  book, 

Heinrich  Heine 

The  Unseen  Playmate         ^cy     <:>      -^v^      <:> 

"\  ^  THEN  children  are  playing  alone  on  the  green, 
'  *    In  comes  the  playmate  that  never  was  seen. 
When  children  are  happy  and  lonely  and  good. 
The  Friend  of  the  Children  comes  out  of  the  wood. 

Nobody  heard  him  and  nobody  saw, 

His  is  a  picture  you  never  could  draw. 

But  he's  sure  to  be  present,  abroad  or  at  home, 

When  children  are  happy  and  playing  alone. 

He  lies  in  the  laurels,  he  runs  on  the  grass. 
He  sings  when  you  tinkle  the  musical  glass ; 
Whene'er  you  are  happy  and  cannot  tell  why, 
The  Friend  of  the  Children  is  sure  to  be  by! 
23 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

He  loves  to  be  little,  he  hates  to  be  big, 
'Tis  he  that  inhabits  the  caves  that  you  dig ; 
'Tis  he  when  you  play  with  your  soldiers  of  tin 
That  sides  with  the  Frenchman  and  never  can  win. 

'Tis  he,  when  at  night  you  go  oflf  to  your  bed, 
Bids  you  go  to  your  sleep  and  not  trouble  your  head ; 
For  wherever  they're  lying,  in  cupboard  or  shelf, 
'Tis  he  will  take  care  of  your  playthings  himself! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


The  Lost  Friend        -oy      '<;^      -"o      -o      'Oy 

A  LL  underneath  the  restless  sea 
■^^    Grief  ran  along  a  wire  to  me ; 
Children,  your  tender  friend  is  gone  — 
Dear  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

With  radiant  smiles  he  reached  his  hands 
To  stroke  the  young  of  many  lands ; 
Himself  a  man  and  boy  in  one  — 
Dear  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

Since  he  shall  live  on  children's  hps 
In  tales  of  treasure  and  of  ships, 
What  need  to  raise  a  tower  of  stone 
For  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  ? 

Samoa  nurses  him  in  flowers, 
Forever  hers,  forever  ours; 
Incarnate  tune,  undying  tone, 
Dear  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


Norman  Gale 


24 


n 

INARTICULATE   FRIENDSHIPS 


as 


ulili 


M^ 


/ '  r> 


I   ■ ' '  I  .■  ■  1 1 1  I  / 


INARTICULATE   FRIENDSHIPS 

The  Bullfinch 

The  Faithful  Bird 

Poor  Dog  Tray 

Rab  and  his  Friends 

For  the  Love  of  a  Man 

The  Blood  Horse 

Modestine 

A  Night  With  a  Wolf 

Friends  in  Prison 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare 

The  Friendship  of  Books 

The  Hills  of  the  South  Country 


|;|M.;,^,;;>;.n 


ll 


P:^  r'> 


"DENEATH  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
-'-^  Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  spring's  unclouded  weather, 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat, 
And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year's  friends  together. 

William  Wordsworth 


28 


The  Bullfinch         -"^^     -s::>     -oy      -';:>     ^ci^     ^li. 

TF  any  one  should  come  to  me  and  bid  me  recommend 
■^  The  very  nicest  animal  to  care  for  as  a  pet, 
I  should  answer,  "  As  a  playmate  and  one's  own  especial 

friend, 
I  have  never  known  the  creature  to  excel  the  bullfinch 

yet. 

"  The  rabbit  has  a  twitching  nose  and  bright  and  startled 
eye 
(And  when  he  happens  to  be  white  his  eye  is  pinky, 
too). 
But  nothing  will  he  do  for  you,  however  you  may  try. 
Excepting  eat,  and  eat,  and  eat,  and  eat,  his  lifetime 
through. 

"  The  squirrel  is  a  lively  little  brilliant  mass  of  fur, 

Who  frolics  when  he  wishes,  but  to  love  is  not  inclined ; 
The  dormouse  has  attractions,  but  for  months  he  doesn't 
stir; 
The  silkworm  is  industrious,  but  lacks  the  mirthful 
mind. 

"  The  bullfinch,  on  the  contrary,  is  full  of  love  and  cheek : 
He'll  hop  among  the  breakfast  things,  and  peck  what 
suits  him  best ; 
He'll  nestle  on  your  shoulder,  and  he'll  kiss  you  with  his 
beak. 
And  sing  his  little  soothing  song  and  puff  his  rosy 
chest."  L. 

29 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


The  Faithful  Bird  <:>     -c^x     ^>     <:> 

'  I  ^HE  greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat ; 
■*-  My  shrubs  displac'd  from  that  retreat 

Enjoy'd  the  open  air ; 
Two  goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  song 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 

Liv'd  happy  pris'ners  there. 

They  sang,  as  blithe  as  finches  sing, 
That  flutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 

And  frolic  where  they  list ; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  'tis  true. 
But  that  delight  they  never  knew. 

And  therefore  never  miss'd. 

But  nature  works  in  every  breast, 
With  force  not  easily  suppress'd ; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 
That  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 

A  pass  between  his  wires. 

The  open  windows  seem'd  t'  invite 
The  freeman  to  a  farewell  flight ; 

But  Tom  was  still  confiji'd ; 
And  Dick,  although  his  way  was  clear, 
Was  much  too  gen'rous  and  sincere 

To  leave  his  friend  behind. 

So  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play, 
And  chirp,  and  kiss,  he  seem'd  to  say. 
You  must  not  hve  alone  — 

30 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

Nor  would  he  quit  that  chosen  stand 
Till  I,  with  slow  and  cautious  hand, 
Retum'd  him  to  his  own. 

O  ye  who  never  taste  the  joys 

Of  Friendship,  satisfied  with  noise, 

Fandango,  ball,  and  rout ! 
Blush  when  I  tell  you  how  a  bird 
A  prison  with  a  friend  preferr'd 

To  liberty  without. 

William  Cowper 


Poor  Dog  Tray       -v:>     <:iy     -^^^k     <iy     ^o     <:> 

/^~\N  the  green  banks  of  Shannon ,  when  Sheelah  was  nigh, 
^^  No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I; 
No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerily  play, 
And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  part. 
She  said,  while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart, 
"O  remember  your  Sheelah  when  far,  far  away, 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray." 

When  the  road  was  so  dark,  and  the  wind  was  so  cold. 
And  Pat  and  his  dog  were  growing  weary  and  old, 
How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  gray  ! 
And  he  licked  me  for  kindness  —  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Though  my  wallet  was  scant,  I  remembered  his  case, 
Nor  refused  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter's  day. 
And  I  played  a  sad  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

31 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Where  now  shall  I  go  ?  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind, 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  faithful  and  kind  ? 
To  my  dear  native  village,  so  far,  far  away, 
I  can  never  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray  ! 

Thomas  Campbell 

Rab  and  his  Friends       <:i.'     -ci^     o     -v>     ^vi». 

/~\NE  fine  October  afternoon,  I  was  leaving  the  hospital, 
^^  when  I  saw  the  large  gate  open,  and  in  walked  Rab, 
with  that  great  and  easy  saunter  of  his.  He  looked  as 
if  taking  general  possession  of  the  place ;  like  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  entering  a  subdued  city,  satiated  with 
victory  and  peace.  After  him  came  Jess,  now  white 
from  age,  with  her  cart;  and  in  it  a  woman,  carefully 
wrapped  up,  —  the  carrier  leading  the  horse  anxiously, 
and  looking  back.  When  he  saw  me,  James  (for  his 
name  was  James  Noble)  made  a  curt  and  grotesque 
"boo,"  and  said,  "Maister  John,  this  is  the  mistress; 
she's  got  a  trouble  in  her  breest — some  kind  o'  an  income, 
we're  thinking." 

By  this  time  I  saw  the  woman's  face ;  she  was  sitting 
on  a  sack  filled  with  straw,  her  husband's  plaid  round 
her,  and  his  big-coat  with  its  large  white  metal  buttons, 
over  her  feet. 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgetable  face  —  pale,  serious, 
lonely,  deUcate,  sweet,  without  being  at  all  what  we  call 
fine.  She  looked  sixty,  and  had  on  a  mutch,  white  as 
snow,  with  its  black  ribbon;  her  silvery,  smooth  hair 
setting  off  her  dark-gray  eyes  —  eyes  such  as  one  sees 
only  twice  or  thrice  in  a  hfe-time,  full  of  suffering,  full 
also  of  the  overcoming  of  it:  her  eyebrows  black  and 
32 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

delicate,  and  her  mouth  firm,  patient,  and  contented, 
which  few  mouths  ever  are. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  counte- 
nance, or  one  more  subdued  to  settled  quiet.  "AiUe," 
said  James,  "this  is  Maister  John,  the  young  doctor; 
Rab's  freend,  ye  ken.  We  often  speak  aboot  you,  doc- 
tor." She  smiled,  and  made  a  movement,  but  said  noth- 
ing ;  and  prepared  to  come  down,  putting  her  plaid  aside 
and  rising.  Had  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  been  handing 
down  the  Queen  of  Sheba  at  his  palace  gate,  he  could  not 
have  done  it  more  daintily,  more  tenderly,  more  like  a 
gentleman,  than  did  James,  the  Howgate  carrier,  when 
he  Uf ted  down  Aiiie,  his  wife.  The  contrast  of  his  small, 
swarthy,  weather-beaten,  jceen,  worldly  face  to  hers  — 
pale,  subdued,  and  beautiful  —  was  something  wonderful. 
Rab  looked  on  concerned  and  puzzled,  but  ready  for  any- 
thing that  might  turn  up,  —  were  it  to  strangle  the  nurse, 
the  porter,  or  even  me.     AiUe  and  he  seemed  great  friends. 

"As  I  was  sayin',  she's  got  a  kind  o'  trouble  in  her 
breest,  doctor ;  wull  ye  tak'  a  look  at  it  ?  "  We  walked 
into  the  consulting-room,  all  four;  Rab  grim  and  comic, 
willing  to  be  happy  and  confidential  if  cause  could  be 
shown,  willing  also  to  be  the  reverse,  on  the  same  terms. 
Ailie  sat  down,  undid  her  open  gown  and  her  lawn  hand- 
kerchief round  her  neck,  and  without  a  word,  showed 
me  her  right  breast.  I  looked  at  and  examined  it  care- 
fully, —  she  and  James  watching  me,  and  Rab  eying 
all  three.  What  could  I  say  ?  there  it  was,  that  had  once 
been  so  soft,  so  shapely,  so  white,  so  gracious  and  bounti- 
ful, so  "full  of  all  blessed  conditions,"  —  hard  as  a  stone, 
a  centre  of  horrid  pain,  making  that  pale  face,  with  its 
gray,  lucid,  reasonable  eyes,  and  its  sweet  resolved  mouth, 

D  33 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

express  the  full  measure  of  suffering  overcome.  Why 
was  that  gentle,  modest,  sweet  woman,  clean  and  lovable, 
condemned  by  God  to  bear  such  a  burden  ? 

I  got  her  away  to  bed.  "May  Rab  and  me  bide?" 
said  James.  "You  may;  and  Rab,  if  he  will  behave 
himself."  "I'se  warrant  he's  do  that,  doctor";  and  in 
slank  the  faithful  beast.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him. 
There  are  no  such  dogs  now.  He  belonged  to  a  lost 
tribe.  As  I  have  said,  he  was  brindled  and  gray  like 
Rubislaw  granite  ;  his  hair  short,  hard,  and  close,  like  a 
lion's ;  his  body  thick  set,  like  a  little  bull  —  a  sort  of 
compressed  Hercules  of  a  dog.  He  must  have  been 
ninety  pounds'  weight,  at  the  least ;  he  had  a  large  blunt 
head ;  his  muzzle  black  as  night,  his  mouth  blacker  than 
any  night,  a  tooth  or  two  —  being  all  he  had  —  gleaming 
out  of  his  jaws  of  darkness.  His  head  was  scarred  with 
the  records  of  old  wounds,  a  sort  of  series  of  fields  of  battle 
all  over  it ;  one  eye  out,  one  ear  cropped  as  close  as  was 
Archbishop  Leighton's  father's;  the  remaining  eye  had 
the  power  of  two ;  and  above  it,  and  in  constant  com- 
munication with  it,  was  a  tattered  rag  of  an  ear,  which 
was  forever  unfurling  itself,  like  an  old  flag;  and  then 
that  bud  of  a  tail,  about  one  inch  long,  if  it  could  in  any 
sense  be  said  to  be  long,  being  as  broad  as  long  —  the 
mobility,  the  instantaneousness  of  that  bud  were  very 
funny  and  surprising,  and  its  expressive  twinklings  and 
winkings,  the  intercommunications  between  the  eye, 
the  ear,  and  it,  were  of  the  oddest  and  swiftest. 
■  Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  great  size ;  and 
having  fought  his  way  all  along  the  road  to  absolute 
supremacy,  he  was  as  mighty  in  his  own  line  as  Julius 
Caesar  or  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  had  the  gravity 

34 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

of  all  great  fighters.  ...  So  far  well :  but  four  days 
after  the  operation,  my  patient  had  a  sudden  and  long 
shivering,  a  "groosin',''  as  she  called  it.  I  saw  her  soon 
after ;  her  eyes  were  too  bright,  her  cheek  colored ;  she 
was  restless,  and  ashamed  of  being  so ;  the  balance  was 
lost ;  mischief  had  begun.  On  looking  at  the  wound,  a 
a  blush  of  red  told  the  secret :  her  pulse  was  rapid,  her 
breathing  anxious  and  quick,  she  wasn't  herself,  as  she 
said,  and  was  vexed  at  her  restlessness.  We  tried  what 
we  could ;  James  did  everything,  was  everywhere ;  never 
in  the  way,  never  out  of  it;  Rab  subsided  under  the 
table  into  a  dark  place,  and  was  motionless,  all  but  his 
eye,  which  followed  every  one.  Ailie  got  worse ;  began 
to  wander  in  her  mind,  gently ;  was  more  demonstrative 
in  her  ways  to  James,  rapid  in  her  questions,  and  sharp 
at  times.  He  was  vexed,  and  said,  "She  was  never  that 
way  afore ;  no,  never."  For  a  time  she  knew  her  head 
was  wrong,  and  was  always  asking  our  pardon  —  the 
dear,  gentle  old  woman:  then  dehrium  set  in  strong, 
without  pause.  Her  brain  gave  way,  and  then  came 
that  terrible  spectacle,  — 

"The  intellectual]  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way," 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms,  stopping  suddenly, 
mingling  the  Psalms  of  David  and  the  diviner  words  of 
his  Son  and  Lord,  with  homely  odds  and  ends  and  scraps 
of  ballads. 

Nothing  more  touching,  or  in  a  sense  more  strangely 
beautiful,  did  I  ever  witness.  Her  tremulous,  rapid, 
affectionate,  eager,  Scotch  voice,  —  the  swift,  aimless,  be- 
wildered mind,  the  baffled  utterance,  the  bright  and  peril- 

35 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

ouseye ;  some  wild  words,  some  household  cares,  something 
for  James,  the  names  of  the  dead,  Rab  called  rapidly  and 
in  a  "fremyt"  voice,  and  he  starting  up  surprised,  and 
slinking  off  as  if  he  were  to  blame  somehow,  or  had  been 
dreaming  he  heard ;  many  eager  questions  and  beseech- 
ings  which  James  and  I  could  make  nothing  of,  and  on 
which  she  seemed  to  set  her  all,  and  then  sink  back 
ununderstood.  It  was  very  sad,  but  better  than  many 
things  that  are  not  called  sad.  .  .  . 

This  was  the  close.  She  sank  rapidly:  the  delirium 
left  her;  but,  as  she  whispered,  she  was  "clean  silly"; 
it  was  the  lightening  before  the  final  darkness.  After 
having  for  some  time  lain  still  —  her  eyes  shut,  she  said, 
"James!"  He  came  close  to  her,  and  hfting  up  her 
calm,  clear,  beautiful  eyes,  she  gave  him  a  long  look, 
turned  to  me  kindly  but  shortly,  looked  for  Rab  but  could 
not  see  him,  then  turned  to  her  husband  again,  as  if  she 
would  never  leave  off  looking,  shut  her  eyes,  and  com- 
posed herself.  She  lay  for  some  time  breathing  quick, 
and  passed  away  so  gently,  that  when  we  thought  she 
was  gone,  James,  in  his  old-fashioned  way,  held  the  mir- 
ror to  her  face.  After  a  long  pause,  one  small  spot  of 
dimness  was  breathed  out ;  it  vanished  away,  and  never 
returned,  leaving  the  blank,  clear  darkness  of  the  mirror 
without  a  stain.  "What  is  our  life?  it  is  even  a  vapor, 
which  appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth 
away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been  full  awake  and  motionless ; 
he  came  forward  beside  us:  Ailie's  hand,  which  James 
had  held,  was  hanging  down ;  it  was  soaked  with  his 
tears;  Rab  licked  it  all  over  carefully,  looked  at  her, 
and  returned  to  his  place  under  the  table. 
36 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

James  and  I  sat,  I  don't  know  how  long,  but  for  some 
time,  —  saying  nothing :  he  started  up  abruptly,  and 
with  some  noise  went  to  the  table,  and  putting  his  right 
fore  and  middle  fingers  each  into  a  shoe,  pulled  them  out, 
and  put  them  on,  breaking  one  of  the  leather  latchets, 
and  muttering  in  anger,  "I  never  did  the  like  o'  that 
afore!" 

I  believe  he  never  did;  nor  after  either.  "Rab!" 
he  said  roughly,  and  pointing  with  his  thumb  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  bed.  Rab  leapt  up,  and  settled  himself ;  his 
head  and  eye  to  the  dead  face.  "Maister  John,  ye'll 
wait  for  me,"  said  the  carrier;  and  disappeared  in  the 
darkness,  thundering  down-stairs  in  his  heavy  shoes. 
I  ran  to  a  front  window ;  there  he  was,  already  round  the 
house,  and  out  at  the  gate,  fleeing  Uke  a  shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not  afraid;  so  I  sat 
down  beside  Rab,  and  being  wearied,  fell  asleep.  I 
awoke  from  a  sudden  noise  outside.  It  was  November, 
and  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  Rab  was 
in  slain  quo;  he  heard  the  noise  too,  and  plainly  knew  it, 
but  never  moved.  I  looked  out ;  and  there,  at  the  gate, 
in  the  dim  morning  —  for  the  sun  was  not  up  —  was  Jess 
and  the  cart,  —  a  cloud  of  steam  rising  from  the  old  mare. 
I  did  not  see  James;  he  was  already  at  the  door,  and 
came  up  the  stairs,  and  met  me.  It  was  less  than  three 
hours  since  he  left,  and  he  must  have  posted  out  —  who 
knows  how  ?  —  to  Howgate,  full  nine  miles  off ;  yoked 
Jess,  and  driven  her  astonished  into  town.  He  had  an 
armful  of  blankets,  and  was  streaming  with  perspiration. 
He  nodded  to  me,  spread  out  on  the  floor  two  pairs  of 
clean  old  blankets  having  at  their  corners,  "A.  G.,  1794," 
in  large  letters  in  red  worsted.    These  were  the  initials  of 

37 


l.'iSOlS 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Alison  Graeme,  and  James  may  have  looked  in  at  her 
from  without  —  himself  unseen  but  not  unthought   of 

—  when  he  was  "wat,  wat,  and  weary,"  and  after  having 
walked  many  a  mile  over  the  hills,  may  have  seen  her 
sitting,  while  "a'  the  lave  were  sleepin'"  ;  and  by  the  fire- 
light working  her  name  on  the  blankets,  for  her  ain 
James's  bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and  taking  his  wife  in  his  arms, 
laid  her  in  the  blankets,  and  happed  her  carefully  and 
firmly  up,  leaving  the  face  uncovered;  and  then  lifting 
her,  he  nodded  again  sharply  to  me,  and  with  a  resolved 
but  utterly  miserable  face,  strode  along  the  passage,  and 
down-stairs,  followed  by  Rab.  I  followed  with  a  light; 
but  he  didn't  need  it.  I  went  out,  holding  stupidly  the 
candle  in  my  hand  in  the  calm,  frosty  air ;  we  were  soon 
at  the  gate.  I  could  have  helped  him,  but  I  saw  he  was 
not  to  be  meddled  with,  and  he  was  strong,  and  did  not 
need  it.  He  laid  her  down  as  tenderly,  as  safely,  as  he 
had  lifted  her  out  ten  days  before  —  as  tenderly  as  when 
he  had  her  first  in  his  arms  when  she  was  only  "A.  G.," 

—  sorted  her,  leaving  that  beautiful  sealed  face  open  to 
the  heavens ;  and  then  taking  Jess  by  the  head,  he  moved 
away.  He  did  not  notice  me,  neither  did  Rab,  who  pre- 
sided behind  the  cart. 

I  stood  till  they  passed  through  the  long  shadow  of  the 
College,  and  turned  up  Nicolson  Street.  I  heard  the 
solitary  cart  sound  through  the  streets,  and  die  away 
and  come  again;  and  I  returned,  thinking  of  that  com- 
pany going  up  Libberton  Brae,  then  along  Roslin  Muir, 
the  morning  hght  touching  the  Pentlands  and  making 
them  like  on-looking  ghosts,  then  down  the  hill  through 
Auchindinny  woods,  past  "haunted  Woodhouselee"; 
38 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

and  as  daybreak  came  sweeping  up  the  bleak  Lammer- 
muirs,  and  fell  on  his  own  door,  the  company  would  stop, 
and  James  would  take  the  key,  and  lift  Ailie  up  again, 
laying  her  on  her  own  bed,  and,  having  put  Jess  up, 
would  return  with  Rab  and  shut  the  door. 

Dr.  John  Brown 

For  the  Love  of  a  Man    -c^    -o    -s^y    <^    <::y 

"PJ'OR  the  most  part  Buck's  love  was  expressed  in  ado- 
■'■  ration.  While  he  went  wild  with  happiness  when 
Thornton  touched  him  or  spoke  to  him,  he  did  not  seek 
these  tokens.  Unlike  Skeet,  who  was  wont  to  shove 
her  nose  under  Thornton's  hand  and  nudge  and  nudge 
till  petted,  or  Nig,  who  would  stalk  up  and  rest  his  great 
head  on  Thornton's  knee,  Buck  was  content  to  adore  at 
a  distance.  He  would  lie  by  the  hour,  eager,  alert,  at 
Thornton's  feet,  looking  up  into  his  face,  dwelling  upon 
it,  studying  it,  following  with  keenest  interest  each  fleet- 
ing expression,  every  movement  or  change  of  feature. 
Or,  as  chance  might  have  it,  he  would  lie  farther  away, 
to  the  side  or  rear,  watching  the  outlines  of  the  man  and 
the  occasional  movements  of  his  body.  And  often,  such 
was  the  communion  in  which  they  lived,  the  strength  of 
Buck's  gaze  would  draw  John  Thornton's  head  around, 
and  he  would  return  the  gaze,  without  speech,  his  heart 
shining  out  of  his  eyes  as  Buck's  heart  shone  out.  .  .  . 
But  in  spite  of  this  great  love  he  bore  John  Thornton, 
which  seemed  to  bespeak  the  soft  civilizing  influence, 
the  strain  of  the  primitive,  which  the  Northland  had 
aroused  in  him,  remained  alive  and  active.  Faithfulness 
and  devotion,  things  born  of  fire  and  roof,  were  his ;  yet 

39 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

he  retained  his  wildness  and  wiUness.  He  was  a  thing 
of  the  wild,  come  in  from  the  wild  to  sit  by  John  Thorn- 
ton's fire,  rather  than  a  dog  of  the  soft  Southland  stamped 
with  the  marks  of  generations  of  civilization.  Because 
of  his  very  great  love,  he  could  not  steal  from  this  man, 
but  from  any  other  man,  in  any  other  camp,  he  did  not 
hesitate  an  instant;  while  the  cunning  with  which  he 
stole  enabled  him  to  escape  detection.  .  .  . 

That  winter,  at  Dawson,  Buck  performed  another 
exploit,  not  so  heroic,  perhaps,  but  one  that  put  his  name 
many  notches  higher  on  the  totem-pole  of  Alaskan  fame. 
This  exploit  was  particularly  gratifying  to  the  three  men ; 
for  they  stood  in  need  of  the  outfit  which  it  furnished, 
and  were  enabled  to  make  a  long-desired  trip  into  the 
virgin  East,  where  miners  had  not  yet  appeared.  It 
was  brought  about  by  a  conversation  in  the  Eldorado 
Saloon,  in  which  men  waxed  boastful  of  their  favorite 
dogs.  Buck,  because  of  his  record,  was  the  target  for 
these  men,  and  Thornton  was  driven  stoutly  to  defend 
him.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  one  man  stated  that  his 
dog  could  start  a  sled  with  five  hundred  pounds  and 
walk  off  with  it;  a  second  bragged  six  hundred  for  his 
dog ;  and  a  third,  seven  hundred. 

" Pooh  !  pooh  ! "  said  John  Thornton ;  "Buck  can  start 
a  thousand  pounds." 

"And  break  it  out  ?  and  walk  off  with  it  for  a  hundred 
yards?"  demanded  Matthewson,  a  Bonanza  King,  he 
of  the  seven  hundred  vaunt. 

"And  break  it  out,  and  walk  off  with  it  for  a  hundred 
yards,"  John  Thornton  said  coolly. 

"Well,"  Matthewson  said,  slowly  and  deliberately, 
so  that  all  could  hear,  "I've  got  a  thousand  dollars  that 
40 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

says  he  can't.  And  there  it  is."  So  saying,  he  slammed 
a  sack  of  gold-dust  of  the  size  of  a  bologna  sausage  down 
upon  the  bar. 

Nobody  spoke.  Thornton's  bluff,  if  bluff  it  was,  had 
been  called.  He  could  feel  a  flush  of  warm  blood  creeping 
up  his  face.  His  tongue  had  tricked  him.  He  did  not 
know  whether  Buck  could  start  a  thousand  pounds. 
Half  a  ton  !  The  enormousness  of  it  appalled  him.  He 
had  great  faith  in  Buck's  strength  and  had  often  thought 
him  capable  of  starting  such  a  load ;  but  never,  as  now, 
had  he  faced  the  possibihty  of  it,  the  eyes  of  a  dozen  men 
fixed  upon  him,  silent  and  waiting.  Further,  he  had 
no  thousand  dollars ;  nor  had  Hans  nor  Pete. 

"I've  got  a  sled  standing  outside  now,  with  twenty 
fifty-pound  sacks  of  flour  on  it,"  Matthewson  went  on 
with  brutal  directness ;  "so  don't  let  that  hinder  you." 

Thornton  did  not  reply.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
say.  He  glanced  from  face  to  face  in  the  absent  way  of 
a  man  who  has  lost  the  power  of  thought  and  is  seeking 
somewhere  to  find  the  thing  that  will  start  it  going  again. 
The  face  of  Jim  O'Brien,  a  Mastodon  King  and  old-time 
comrade,  caught  his  eyes.  It  was  as  a  cue  to  him,  seem- 
ing to  rouse  him  to  do  what  he  would  never  have  dreamed 
of  doing. 

"Can  you  lend  me  a  thousand?"  he  asked  almost  in 
a  whisper. 

"Sure,"  answered  O'Brien,  thumping  down  a  plethoric 
sack  by  the  side  of  Matthewson 's.  "Though  it's  little 
faith  I'm  having,  John,  that  the  beast  can  do  the  trick." 

The  Eldorado  emptied  its  occupants  into  the  street 
to  see  the  test.  The  tables  were  deserted,  and  the 
dealers  and  gamekeepers  came  forth  to  see  the  outcome 
41 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

of  the  wager  and  to  lay  odds.  Several  hundred  men, 
furred  and  mittened,  banked  around  the  sled  within  easy 
distance.  Matthewson's  sled,  loaded  with  a  thousand 
pounds  of  flour,  had  been  standing  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
and  in  the  intense  cold  (it  was  sixty  below  zero)  the 
runners  had  frozen  fast  to  the  hard-packed  snow.  Men 
offered  odds  of  two  to  one  that  Buck  could  not  budge  the 
sled.  A  quibble  arose  concerning  the  phrase  "  break  out." 
O'Brien  contended  it  was  Thornton's  privilege  to  knock 
the  runners  loose,  leaving  Buck  to  "break  it  out"  from 
a  dead  standstill.  Matthewson  insisted  that  the  phrase 
included  breaking  the  runners  from  the  frozen  grip  of  the 
snow.  A  majority  of  the  men  who  had  witnessed  the 
making  of  the  bet  decided  in  his  favor,  whereat  the  odds 
went  up  to  three  to  one  against  Buck. 

There  were  no  takers.  Not  a  man  believed  him  ca- 
pable of  the  feat.  Thornton  had  been  hurried  into  the 
wager,  heavy  with  doubt;  and  now  that  he  looked  at 
the  sled  itself,  the  concrete  fact,  with  the  regular  team 
of  ten  dogs  curled  up  in  the  snow  before  it,  the  more  im- 
possible the  task  appeared.   Matthewson  waxed  jubilant. 

"Three  to  one  ! "  he  proclaimed.  "I'll  lay  you  another 
thousand  at  that  figure,  Thornton.     What  d'ye  say  ?  " 

Thornton's  doubt  was  strong  in  his  face,  but  his  fight- 
ing spirit  was  aroused  —  the  fighting  spirit  that  soars 
above  odds,  fails  to  recognize  the  impossible,  and  is  deaf 
to  all  save  the  clamor  for  battle.  He  called  Hans  and 
Pete  to  him.  Their  sacks  were  slim,  and  with  his  own 
the  three  partners  could  rake  together  only  two  hundred 
dollars.  In  the  ebb  of  their  fortunes,  this  sum  was  their 
total  capital;  yet  they  laid  it  unhesitatingly  against 
Matthewson's  six  hundred. 

42 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

The  team  of  ten  dogs  was  unhitched,  and  Buck,  with 
his  own  harness,  was  put  into  the  sled.  He  had  caught 
the  contagion  of  the  excitement,  and  he  felt  that  in  some 
way  he  must  do  a  great  thing  for  John  Thornton.  Mur- 
murs of  admiration  at  his  splendid  appearance  went  up. 
He  was  in  perfect  condition,  without  an  ounce  of  super- 
fluous flesh,  and  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  poimds  that 
he  weighed  were  so  many  pounds  of  grit  and  virility. 
His  furry  coat  shone  with  the  sheen  of  silk.  Down  the 
neck  and  across  the  shoulders,  his  mane,  in  repose  as  it 
was,  half  bristled  and  seemed  to  lift  with  every  move- 
ment, as  though  excess  of  vigor  made  each  particular  hair 
alive  and  active.  The  great  breast  and  heavy  fore  legs 
were  no  more  than  in  prop>ortion  with  the  rest  of  the  body, 
where  the  muscles  showed  in  tight  rolls  underneath  the 
skin.  Men  felt  these  muscles  and  proclaimed  them  hard 
as  iron,  and  the  odds  went  down  to  two  to  one. 

"Gad,  sir!  Gad,  sir!"  stuttered  a  member  of  the 
latest  dynasty,  a  king  of  the  Skookum  Benches.  "I 
offer  you  eight  hundred  for  him,  sir,  before  the  test,  sir; 
eight  hundred  just  as  he  stands." 

Thornton  shook  his  head  and  stepped  to  Buck's  side. 

"You  must  stand  off  from  him,"  Matthewson  pro- 
tested.    "Free  play  and  plenty  of  room." 

The  crowd  fell  silent ;  only  could  be  heard  the  voices 
of  the  gamblers  vainly  offering  two  to  one.  Everybody 
acknowledged  Buck  a  magnificent  animal,  but  twenty 
fifty-pound  sacks  of  flour  bulked  too  large  in  their  eyes 
for  them  to  loosen  their  pouch-strings. 

Thornton  knelt  down  by  Buck's  side.  He  took  his 
head  in  his  two  hands  and  rested  cheek  on  cheek.  He 
did  not  playfully  shake  him,  as  was  his  wont,  or  murmur 

43 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

soft  love  curses;  but  he  whispered  in  his  ear.  "As  you 
love  me,  Buck.  As  you  love  me,"  was  what  he  whispered. 
Buck  whined  with  suppressed  eagerness. 

The  crowd  was  watching  curiously.  The  affair  was 
growing  mysterious.  It  seemed  Uke  a  conjuration.  As 
Thornton  got  to  his  feet,  Buck  seized  his  mittened  hand 
between  his  jaws,  pressing  in  with  his  teeth  and  releasing 
slowly,  half-reluctantly.  It  was  the  answer,  in  terms, 
not  of  speech,  but  of  love.     Thornton  stepped  well  back. 

"Now,  Buck,"  he  said. 

Buck  tightened  the  traces,  then  slacked  them  for  a 
matter  of  several  inches.  It  was  the  way  he  had 
learned. 

"Gee !"  Thornton's  voice  rang  out,  sharp  in  the  tense 
silence. 

Buck  swung  to  the  right,  ending  the  movement  in  a 
plunge  that  took  up  the  slack  and  with  a  sudden  jerk 
arrested  his  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  The  load 
quivered,  and  from  under  the  runners  arose  a  crisp  crack- 
ling. 

"Haw !"  Thornton  commanded. 

Buck  duplicated  the  manoeuvre,  this  time  to  the  left. 
The  crackling  turned  into  a  snapping,  the  sled  pivoting 
and  the  runners  slipping  and  grating  several  inches  to 
the  side.  The  sled  was  broken  out.  Men  were  holding 
their  breaths,  intensely  unconscious  of  the  fact. 

"Now,  MUSH!" 

Thornton's  command  cracked  out  like  a  pistol-shot. 
Buck  threw  himself  forward,  tightening  the  traces  with  a 
jarring  lunge.  His  whole  body  was  gathered  compactly 
together  in  the  tremendous  effort,  the  muscles  writhing 
and  knotting  like  live  things  under  the  silky  fur.    His 

44 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

great  chest  was  low  to  the  ground,  his  head  forward  and 
down,  while  his  feet  were  flying  like  mad,  the  claws 
scarring  the  hard-packed  snow  in  parallel  grooves.  The 
sled  swayed  and  trembled,  half-started  forward.  One 
of  his  feet  slipped,  and  one  man  groaned  aloud.  Then 
the  sled  lurched  ahead  in  what  appeared  a  rapid  succes- 
sion of  jerks,  though  it  never  really  came  to  a  dead  stop 
again  .  .  .  half  an  inch  ...  an  inch  .  .  .  two  inches 
.  .  .  The  jerks  perceptibly  diminished ;  as  the  sled 
gained  momentum,  he  caught  them  up,  till  it  was  moving 
steadily  along. 

Men  gasped  and  began  to  breathe  again,  unaware  that 
for  a  moment  they  had  ceased  to  breathe.  Thornton 
was  running  behind,  encouraging  Buck  with  short, 
cheery  words.  The  distance  had  been  measured  off, 
and  as  he  neared  the  pile  of  firewood  which  marked  the 
end  of  the  hundred  yards,  a  cheer  began  to  grow  and  grow, 
which  burst  into  a  roar  as  he  passed  the  firewood  and 
halted  at  command.  Every  man  was  tearing  himself 
loose,  even  Matthewson.  Hats  and  mittens  were  flying 
in  the  air.  Men  were  shaking  hands,  it  did  not  matter 
with  whom,  and  bubbling  over  in  a  general  incoherent 
babel. 

But  Thornton  fell  on  his  knees  beside  Buck.  Head 
was  against  head,  and  he  was  shaking  him  back  and  forth. 
Those  who  hurried  up  heard  him  cursing  Buck,  and  he 
cursed  him  long  and  fervently,  and  softly  and  lovingly. 

"Gad,  sir  !  Gad,  sir !"  spluttered  the  Skookum  Bench 
king.  "I'll  give  you  a  thousand  for  him,  sir,  a  thousand, 
sir  —  twelve  hundred,  sir." 

Thornton  rose  to  his  feet.  His  eyes  were  wet.  The 
tears  were  streaming  frankly  down  his  cheeks.     "Sir," 

45 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

he  said  to  the  Skookum  Bench  king,  "no,  sir.     You  can 
go  to  hell,  sir.     It's  the  best  I  can  do  for  you,  sir." 

Buck  seized  Thornton's  hand  in  his  teeth.  Thornton 
shook  him  back  and  forth.  As  though  animated  by  a 
common  impulse,  the  onlookers  drew  back  to  a  respectful 
distance ;  nor  were  they  again  indiscreet  enough  to  inter- 
rupt. 

Jack  London 


The  Blood  Horse     ^=^     '^^     -*^i>'     ^v>     ^::>     'Qy 

/'"^AMARRA  is  a  dainty  steed, 

^-'^    Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 

Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone. 

With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known ; 

Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 

But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within ! 

His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing, 

And  his  eyes  hke  embers  glowing 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look  —  how  'round  his  straining  throat 
Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float ; 
Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins, 
And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins ; 
Richer,  redder,  never  ran 
Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 
He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 
Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire,  — 
Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 
Or  O'Brien's  blood  himself ! 
46 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born, 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn ; 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  Uke  one  of  a  race  divine  ! 

And  yet,  —  he  was  but  friend  to  one, 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun. 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green : 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day),  — 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands  ! 

Barry  Cornwall 

Modestine     '^^      ^^cii.     -«v:iK     <::iy     -«;:>     -o     <:S' 

'X'HERE  dwelt  an  old  man  in  Monastier,  of  rather 
-*-  unsound  intellect  according  to  some,  much  followed 
by  street-boys,  and  known  to  fame  as  Father  Adam. 
Father  Adam  had  a  cart,  and  to  draw  the  cart  a  diminu- 
tive she-ass,  not  much  bigger  than  a  dog,  the  color  of  a 
mouse,  with  a  kindly  eye  and  determined  under  jaw. 
There  was  something  neat  and  high-bred,  a  quakerish 
elegance,  about  the  rogue  that  hit  my  fancy  on  the  spot. 
Our  first  interview  was  in  Monastier  market-place.  To 
prove  her  good  temper,  one  child  after  another  was  set 
upon  her  back  to  ride,  and  one  after  another  went  head 
over  heels  into  the  air ;  until  a  want  of  confidence  began 
to  reign  in  youthful  bosoms,  and  the  experiment  was  dis- 
continued from  a  dearth  of  subjects.    I  was  already 

47 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

backed  by  a  deputation  of  my  friends ;  but  as  if  this  were 
not  enough,  all  the  buyers  and  sellers  came  round  and 
helped  me  in  the  bargain ;  and  the  ass  and  I  and  Father 
Adam  were  the  centre  of  a  hubbub  for  near  half  an  hour. 
At  length  she  passed  into  my  service  for  the  consideration 
of  sixty-five  francs  and  a  glass  of  brandy.  My  sleeping 
sack  had  already  cost  eighty  francs  and  two  glasses  of 
beer;  so  that  Modestine,  as  I  instantly  baptized  her, 
was  upon  all  accounts  the  cheaper  article.  Indeed, 
that  was  as  it  should  be ;  for  she  was  only  an  appurte- 
nance of  my  mattress,  a  self-acting  bedstead  on  four 
casters. 

I  had  a  last  interview  with  Father  Adam  in  a  billiard- 
room  at  the  witching  hour  of  dawn,  when  I  administered 
the  brandy.  He  professed  himself  greatly  touched  by 
the  separation,  and  declared  he  had  often  bought  white 
bread  for  the  donkey  when  he  had  been  content  with 
black  bread  for  himself ;  but  this,  according  to  the  best 
authorities,  must  have  been  a  flight  of  fancy.  He  had  a 
name  in  the  village  for  brutally  misusing  the  ass;  yet 
it  is  certain  that  he  shed  a  tear,  and  the  tear  made  a  clean 
mark  down  one  cheek. 

The  bell  of  Monastier  was  just  striking  nine  as  I  got 
quit  of  these  preliminary  troubles  and  descended  the  hill 
through  the  common.  As  long  as  I  was  within  sight  of 
the  windows,  a  secret  shame  and  the  fear  of  some  laugh- 
able defeat  withheld  me  from  tampering  with  Modestine. 
She  tripped  along  upon  her  four  small  hoofs  with  a  sober 
daintiness  of  gait ;  from  time  to  time  she  shook  her  ears 
or  her  tail ;  and  she  looked  so  small  under  the  bundle  that 
my  mind  misgave  me.  We  got  across  the  ford  without 
difficulty  —  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  matter,  she 
48 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

was  docility  itself  —  and  once  on  the  other  bank,  where 
the  road  begins  to  mount  through  pine-woods,  I  took  in 
my  right  hand  the  unhallowed  staff,  and  with  a  quaking 
spirit  applied  it  to  the  donkey.  Modestine  brisked  up 
her  pace  for  perhaps  three  steps,  and  then  relapsed  into 
her  former  minuet.  Another  application  had  the  same 
effect,  and  so  with  the  third.  I  am  worthy  the  name 
of  an  Englishman,  and  it  goes  against  my  conscience  to 
lay  my  hand  rudely  on  a  female.  I  desisted,  and  looked 
her  all  over  from  head  to  foot ;  the  poor  brute's  knees  were 
trembling  and  her  breathing  was  distressed ;  it  was  plain 
that  she  could  go  no  faster  on  a  hill.  God  forbid,  thought 
I,  that  I  should  brutalize  this  innocent  creature ;  let  her 
go  at  her  own  pace,  and  let  me  patiently  follow. 

What  that  pace  was,  there  is  no  word  mean  enough  to 
describe ;  it  was  something  as  much  slower  than  a  walk 
as  a  walk  is  slower  than  a  run ;  it  kept  me  hanging  on 
each  foot  for  an  incredible  length  of  time ;  in  five  minutes 
it  exhausted  the  spirit  and  set  up  a  fever  in  all  the  mus- 
cles of  the  leg.  And  yet  I  had  to  keep  close  at  hand  and 
measure  my  advance  exactly  upon  hers ;  for  if  I  dropped 
a  few  yards  into  the  rear,  or  went  on  a  few  yards  ahead, 
Modestine  came  instantly  to  a  halt  and  began  to  browse. 
The  thought  that  this  was  to  last  from  here  to  Alais  nearly 
broke  my  heart.  Of  all  conceivable  journeys,  this  prom- 
ised to  be  the  most  tedious.  I  tried  to  tell  myself  it  was 
a  lovely  day ;  I  tried  to  charm  my  foreboding  spirit  with 
tobacco;  but  I  had  a  vision  ever  present  to  me  of  the 
long,  long  roads,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  and  a  pair  of 
figures  ever  infinitesimally  moving,  foot  by  foot,  a  yard 
to  the  minute,  and,  like  things  enchanted  in  a  nightmare, 
approaching  no  nearer  to  the  goal. 
E  49 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

In  the  meantime  there  came  up  behind  us  a  tall  peas- 
ant, perhaps  forty  years  of  age,  of  an  ironical  snuffy 
countenance,  and  arrayed  in  the  green  tail-coat  of  the 
country.  He  overtook  us  hand  over  hand,  and  stopped 
to  consider  our  pitiful  advance. 

"Your  donkey,"  says  he,  "is  very  old?" 

I  told  him,  I  believed  not. 

Then,  he  supposed,  we  had  come  far. 

I  told  him,  we  had  but  newly  left  Monastier. 

"Et  vous  marchez  comme  fa !"  cried  he;  and,  throw- 
ing back  his  head,  he  laughed  long  and  heartily.  I 
watched  him,  half  prepared  to  feel  offended,  until  he 
had  satisfied  his  mirth;  and  then,  "You  must  have  no 
pity  on  these  animals,"  said  he ;  and,  plucking  a  switch  out 
of  a  thicket,  he  began  to  lace  Modestine  about  the  stern- 
works,  uttering  a  cry.  The  rogue  pricked  up  her  ears  and 
broke  into  a  good  round  pace,  which  she  kept  up  without 
flagging,  and  without  exhibiting  the  least  symptom  of 
distress,  as  long  as  the  peasant  kept  beside  us.  Her 
former  panting  and  shaking  had  been,  I  regret  to  say, 
a  piece  of  comedy. 

My  deus  ex  machina,  before  he  left  me,  supplied  some 
excellent,  if  inhumane,  advice;  presented  me  with  the 
switch,  which  he  declared  she  would  feel  more  tenderly 
than  my  cane;  and  finally  taught  me  the  true  cry  or 
masonic  word  of  donkey-drivers,  "Proot!"  All  the 
time,  he  regarded  me  with  a  comical,  incredulous  air, 
which  was  embarrassing  to  confront;  and  smiled  over 
my  donkey-driving,  as  I  might  have  smiled  over  his 
orthography,  or  his  green  tail-coat.  But  it  was  not  my 
turn  for  the  moment. 


SO 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

On  examination,  on  the  morning  of  October  3,  Modes- 
tine  was  pronounced  unfit  for  travel.  She  would  need  at 
least  two  days'  repose  according  to  the  ostler;  but  I 
was  now  eager  to  reach  Alais  for  my  letters ;  and  being 
in  a  civilized  country  of  stage-coaches,  I  determined  to 
sell  my  lady-friend  and  be  off  by  the  diligence  that  after- 
noon. Our  yesterday's  march,  with  the  testimony  of 
the  driver  who  had  pursued  us  up  the  long  hill  of  St. 
Pierre,  spread  a  favorable  notion  of  my  donkey's  ca- 
pabilities. Intending  purchasers  were  aware  of  an  vmri- 
valled  opportunity.  Before  ten  I  had  an  offer  of  twenty- 
five  francs;  and  before  noon,  after  a  desperate  engage- 
ment, I  sold  her,  saddled  and  aU,  for  five-and-thirty. 
The  pecuniary  gain  is  not  obvious,  but  I  had  bought 
freedom  into  the  bargain.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  until  I  was  fairly  seated  by  the  driver,  and 
rattling  through  a  rocky  valley  with  dwarf  olives,  that  I 
became  aware  of  my  bereavement.  I  had  lost  Modestine. 
Up  to  that  moment  I  had  thought  I  hated  her ;  but  now 
she  was  gone, 

"And,  0, 
The  difiference  to  me ! " 

For  twelve  days  we  had  been  fast  companions;  we  had 
travelled  upwards  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  miles,  crossed 
several  respectable  ridges,  and  jogged  along  with  our  six 
legs  by  many  a  rock  and  many  a  boggy  by-road.  After 
the  first  day,  although  sometimes  I  was  hurt  and  distant 
in  manner,  I  still  kept  my  patience ;  and  as  for  her,  poor 
soul !  she  had  come  to  regard  me  as  a  god.  She  loved  to 
eat  out  of  my  hand.  She  was  patient,  elegant  in  form, 
the  color  of  an  ideal  mouse,  and  inimitably  small.    Her 

SI 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

faults  were  those  of  her  race  and  sex ;  her  virtues  were  her 
own.    Farewell,  and  if  forever  — 

Father  Adam  wept  when  he  sold  her  to  me ;  after  I 
had  sold  her  in  my  turn,  I  was  tempted  to  follow  his 
example;  and  being  alone  with  a  stage-driver  and  four 
or  five  agreeable  young  men,  I  did  not  hesitate  to  yield 
to  my  emotion. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


A  Night  with  a  Wolf      ^c^     -oy     ^;>     --v^     •<c:y 

T    ITTLE  one,  come  to  my  knee  ! 
-* — '    Hark,  how  the  rain  is  pouring 
Over  the  roof,  in  the  pitch-black  night, 
And  the  wind  in  the  woods  a-roaring ! 

Hush,  my  darling,  and  listen, 
Then  pay  for  the  story  with  kisses ; 

Father  was  lost  in  the  pitch-black  night, 
In  just  such  a  storm  as  this  is  ! 

High  up  on  the  lonely  mountains. 

Where  the  wild  men  watched  and  waited ; 

Wolves  in  the  forest,  and  bears  in  the  bush, 
And  I  on  my  path  belated. 

The  rain  and  the  night  together 

Came  down,  and  the  wind  came  after. 

Bending  the  props  of  the  pine-tree  roof, 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 

I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned,  and  bruised,  and  bhnded,  — 

52 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

Crept  to  a  fir  with  thick-set  boughs, 
And  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it. 

There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining. 

Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me : 
Something  rustled,  two  green  eyes  shone, 

And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 

Little  one,  be  not  frightened ; 

I  and  the  wolf  together, 
Side  by  side,  through  the  long,  long  night, 

Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 

His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me ; 

Each  of  us  warmed  the  other ; 
Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 

That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 

And  when  the  falling  forest 

No  longer  crashed  in  warning. 
Each  of  us  went  from  our  hiding-place 

Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 

Darling,  kiss  me  in  payment ! 

Hark,  how  the  wind  is  roaring ; 
Father's  house  is  a  better  place 

When  the  stormy  rain  is  pouring  ! 

Bayard  Taylor 

Friends  in  Prison    -cb'     ^v>     ^^     ^cy     <i-     ^c> 

"  "OEING  almost  deprived  of  human  society,  I  one 

^-^    day  made  acquaintance  with  some  ants  upon  my 

window.    I  fed  them;  they  went  away;  and  ere  long 

53 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

the  place  was  thronged  with  these  Httle  insects,  as  if 
they  came  by  invitation.  A  spider,  too,  had  weaved  a 
whole  edifice  upon  my  walls;  and  I  often  gave  him  a 
feast  of  gnats  or  flies,  which  were  extremely  annoying 
to  me,  but  which  he  liked  much  better  than  I  did.  I  got 
quite  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  him ;  he  would  run  over 
my  bed  and  come  and  take  the  precious  morsels  out  of 
my  hand,"  writes  Silvio  PeUico.  Later  in  "My  Prisons" 
the  poet-patriot  writes  of  a  removal  to  another  cell,  and 
of  reflecting:  "Perhaps  he  may  remember  me  and  come 
back ;  but  he  will  find  my  prisoij  empty,  or  occupied  by 
some  other  tenant,  —  no  friend,  perhaps  to  spiders, 
—  and  meet  with  an  awkward  reception.  His  beautiful 
web-house  and  his  gnat-feasts  will  be  put  an  end  to." 


Epitaph  on  a  Hare     <2y    -*cy    ^c:>    <;i>^     ^o    -^^y 

TTERE  Hes,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue, 
■*■  -■-     Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 
Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  hallo, 


Old  Tiney,  surHest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nurs'd  with  tender  care. 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confin'd, 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 
His  pittance  every  night, 

He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look. 
And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 
54 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 
And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw ; 

Thistles  or  lettuces  instead. 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regal'd, 

On  pippins'  russet  peel. 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  fail'd, 

She'd  carrot  pleas'd  him  well. 

A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 

Whereon  he  lov'd  to  bound, 
To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn, 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  ev'ning  hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear. 
But  most  before  approaching  show'rs, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round-rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away. 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle,  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humor's  sake. 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts,  that  made  it  ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now  beneath  this  walnut  shade 

He  finds  his  long-lost  home, 
And  waits  in  snug  concealment  laid, 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

55 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

He  still  more  aged  feels  the  shocks, 

From  which  no  care  can  save, 
And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box. 

Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 

William  Cowper 

The  Friendship  of  Books         -c^     <i^     -;:>     ^;:iy 

TTAVE  you  found  that  the  man  who  is  in  the  greatest 
-*■  -*-  hurry  to  tell  you  all  that  he  thinks  about  all  possi- 
ble things,  is  the  friend  that  is  best  worth  knowing  ?  Have 
you  found  that  the  one  who  talked  most  about  himself 
and  his  own  doings  is  the  most  worth  knowing  ?  Do  you 
not  generally  become  rather  exhausted  with  men  of  his 
kind  ?  Do  not  you  say  sometimes,  in  Shakespeare's 
own  words,  or  rather  in  Falstafl's,  "I  do  see  to  the  bot- 
tom of  this  same  Justice  Shallow ;  he  has  told  me  all  he 
has  to  tell.  There  is  no  reserve  in  him,  nothing  that  is 
worth  searching  after"?  On  the  other  hand,  have  you 
not  met  with  some  men  who  very  rarely  spoke  about  their 
own  impressions  and  thoughts,  who  seldom  laid  down 
the  law,  and  yet  who  you  were  sure  had  a  fund  of  wisdom 
within,  and  who  made  you  partakers  of  it  by  the  light 
which  they  threw  on  the  earth  in  which  they  were  dwel- 
ling, especially  by  the  kindly,  humorous,  pathetic  way 
in  which  they  interested  you  about  your  fellow-men,  and 
made  you  acquainted  with  them  ?  I  do  not  say  that  this 
is  the  only  class  of  friends  which  one  would  wish  for. 
One  likes  to  have  some  who  in  quiet  moments  are  more 
directly  communicative  about  their  own  sufferings  and 
struggles.  But  certainly  you  would  not  say  that  men  of 
the  other  class  are  not  very  pleasant,  and  very  profitable. 
S6 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

Of  this  class  Shakespeare  is  the  most  remarkable  speci- 
men. Instead  of  being  a  Reviewer  who  sits  above  the 
universe,  and  applies  his  own  narrow  rules  to  the  members 
of  it,  he  throws  himself  with  the  heartiest  and  most  genial 
sympathy  into  the  feeUngs  of  all,  he  understands  their 
position  and  circumstances,  he  perceives  how  each  must 
have  been  aflfected  by  them.  Instead  of  being  a  big, 
imaginary  We,  he  is  so  much  of  a  man  himseK  that  he 
can  enter  into  the  manhood  of  people  who  are  the  farthest 
off  from  him,  and  with  whom  he  has  the  least  to  do. 
And  so,  I  believe,  his  books  may  become  most  valuable 
friends  to  us  —  to  us  especially  who  ought  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  what  is  going  on  with  all  kinds  of  people. 
Every  now  and  then,  I  think  (especially  perhaps  in  the 
characters  of  Hamlet  and  of  Prospero),  one  discovers 
signs  how  Shakespeare  as  an  individual  man  had  fought 
and  suffered.  I  quite  admit,  however,  that  his  main 
work  is  not  to  do  this,  but  to  help  us  in  knowing  ourselves 
—  the  past  history  of  our  land,  the  people  we  are  con- 
tinually meeting.  And  any  book  that  does  this  is  surely 
a  friend.  ...  Ben  Jonson,  though  he  was  the  son  of  a 
bricklayer,  made  himself  a  thoroughly  good  Latin  and 
Greek  scholar.  He  read  the  best  Latin  books,  and  the 
commentaries  which  illustrated  them ;  he  wrote  two  plays 
on  subjects  taken  from  the  Roman  history.  Very  strik- 
ing subjects  they  were.  The  hero  of  one  was  Catiline, 
who  tried  to  overthrow  the  social  order  of  the  Republic ; 
the  hero  of  the  other  was  Sejanus,  who  represents,  by 
his  grandeur  and  his  fall,  the  very  character  and  spirit 
of  the  Empire  in  the  days  of  Tiberius.  In  dealing  with 
these  subjects,  Ben  Jonson  had  the  help  of  two  of  the 
greatest  Roman  authors,  both  of  them  possessing  remark- 

57 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

able  powers  of  narration ;  one  of  them  a  man  of  earnest 
character,  subtle  insight,  deep  reflection.  Though  few 
men  in  his  day  understood  these  authors,  and  the  govern- 
ment and  circumstances  of  Rome,  better  than  Jonson ; 
though  he  was  a  skilful  and  experienced  play-writer, 
most  readers  are  glad  when  they  have  got  Catiline  and 
Sejanus  fairly  done  with.  They  do  not  find  that  they 
have  received  any  distinct  impressions  from  them  of 
Roman  life ;  to  learn  what  it  was  they  must  go  to  the  au- 
thors whom  he  has  copied.  Shakespeare  wrote  three  plays 
on  Roman  subjects,  —  "  Coriolanus,"  "Juhus  Caisar," 
"  Antony  and  Cleopatra."  He  knew  very  little  of  Latin, 
and  the  materials  he  had  to  work  with  were  a  tolerable 
translation  of  Livy's  "History,"  and  a  capital  one  of 
Plutarch's  "Lives."  With  no  aid  but  these,  and  his 
knowledge  of  Warwickshire  peasants,  and  London  citi- 
zens, he  has  taught  us  more  of  Romans  —  he  has  made  us 
more  at  home  in  their  city,  and  at  their  fireside,  than  the 
best  historians  who  Uved  upon  the  soil  are  able  to  do. 
Jonson  studied  their  books ;  Shakespeare  made  frie'uds 
of  them.  He  did  just  the  same  with  our  old  Chronicles, 
He  read  of  King  John,  of  Richard  II,  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
of  Harry  of  Lancaster,  of  Hotspur  and  Owen  Glendower, 
of  the  good  Hiunphrey  of  Gloucester  and  the  dark  Car- 
dinal Beaufort,  of  Wolsey  and  of  Catherine.  He  read 
of  them,  and  they  stood  up  before  him,  real  armed  men, 
or  graceful,  sorrowing  women.  Instead  of  being  dead 
letters,  they  all  became  living  persons ;  not  appearing  in 
soUtary  grandeur,  but  forming  groups ;  not  each  with  a 
fixed  immovable  nature,  but  acted  upon  and  educated 
by  all  the  circumstances  of  their  times;  not  dwelling  in 
an  imaginary  world,  but  warmed  by  the  sun  of  Italy, 
58 


Inarticulate  Friendships 

or  pinched  by  the  chilly  nights  of  Denmark  —  essentially 
men  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  all  countries  and  in  all 
ages,  and  therefore  exhibiting  all  the  varieties  of  tempera- 
ment and  constitution  which  belong  to  each  age,  and  to 
each  country. 

Frederick  Denison  Maurice. 


The  Hills  of  the  South  Country      -cry     -c^     ^> 

"\  1  THEN  I  am  living  in  the  Midlands, 
'  *    That  are  sodden  and  unkind, 

I  light  my  lamp  in  the  evening : 
My  work  is  left  behind ; 

And  the  great  hills  of  the  South  Coimtry 
Come  back  into  my  mind. 

The  great  hills  of  the  South  Country, 

They  stand  along  the  sea : 
And  it's  there  walking  in  the  high  woods 

That  I  could  wish  to  be, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Walking  along  with  me. 

•  •■••• 

I  never  get  between  the  pines, 

But  I  smell  the  Sussex  air, 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home  is  there ; 
And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  the  Downs 

So  noble  and  so  bare. 

A  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 
Nor  a  broken  thing  mend; 
59 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  be  there  to  comfort  me, 

Or  who  win  be  my  friend  ? 

I  will  gather  and  carefully  make  my  friends 

Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald, 
They  watch  the  stars  from  silent  folds, 

They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 
By  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 

My  poor  soul  shall  be  healed. 

If  I  ever  become  a  rich  man, 

Or  if  ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I  will  build  a  house  with  deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold, 
And  there  shall  the  Sussex  songs  be  sung 

And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

I  will  hold  my  house  in  the  high  wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea, 
And  the  men  who  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Shall  sit  and  drink  with  me. 

Hilaire  Belloc 


60 


m 

IN    SCHOOL    AND    COLLEGE    YEARS 


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IN  SCHOOL 
AND  COLLEGE  YEARS 

Dear  Old  Yale 

The  Orange  and  the  Black 

In  Arcadie 

Trinity  College,  Cambridge 

Friends  of  Youth 

Christ's  Hospital  Boys 

A  Father's  Caution  to  his  Son 

A  Test  of  Friendship 

Our  Oldest  Friend 

Tom  Brown's  First  Grief 


■^rffcrikMildBMMMlaMMMMMaMiMaiitMt«MMiAMMiB^*M«V^n*MMI 


■V, 

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/^LD  books,  old  wine,  old  Nankin  blue, 
^-^  All  things,  in  short,  to  which  belong 
The  charm,  the  grace  that  Time  makes  strong  — 
All  these  I  prize,  but  {entre  nous) 

Old  friends  are  best! 

Austin  Dobson 


64 


Dear  Old  Yale       'C^     -o     <:i'     "C^     <::>     -<c^ 

p)RIGHT  college  years,  with  pleasure  rife, 
-'-^  The  shortest,  gladdest  years  of  life, 
How  swiftly  are  ye  gliding  by. 
Oh,  why  doth  time  so  quickly  fly  ! 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 
The  earth  is  green,  or  white  with  snow. 
But  time  and  change  shall  naught  avail 
To  break  the  friendships  formed  at  Yale. 

We  all  must  leave  this  college  home, 
About  the  stormy  world  to  roam ; 
But  though  the  mighty  ocean's  tide 
Should  us  from  dear  old  Yale  divide, 
As  round  the  oak  the  ivy  twines 
The  clinging  tendrils  of  its  vines, 
So  are  our  hearts  close  bound  to  Yale 
By  ties  of  love  that  ne'er  shall  fail. 

In  after-hfe,  should  troubles  rise 

To  cloud  the  blue  of  sunny  skies. 

How  bright  will  seem,  thro'  memory's  haze, 

The  happy,  golden,  bygone  days  ! 

Oh,  let  us  strive  that  ever  we 

May  let  these  words  our  watch-cry  be, 

Where'er  upon  life's  sea  we  sail : 

"For  God,  for  Country,  and  for  Yale." 

By  permission  of  the  author ^  H.  S.  Durand 
»  65 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


The  Orange  and  the  Black      <::iy     ^o     ^:>     ^lix 

A  LTHOUGH  Yale  has  always  favored 
■^^-  The  violet's  dark  blue, 
And  the  gentle  sons  of  Harvard 
To  the  crimson  rose  are  true, 
We  will  own  the  lilies  slender, 
Nor  honor  shall  they  lack, 
While  the  Tiger  stands  defender 
Of  the  Orange  and  the  Black. 

Thro'  the  four  long  years  of  college, 
'Midst  the  scenes  we  know  so  well. 
As  the  mystic  charm  to  knowledge 
We  vainly  seek  to  spell ; 
Or,  we  win  athletic  vict'ries 
On  the  football  field  or  track. 
Still  we  work  for  dear  old  Princeton, 
And  the  Orange  and  the  Black. 

When  the  cares  of  life  o'ertake  us, 
Mingling  fast  our  locks  with  gray. 
Should  our  dearest  hopes  betray  us, 
False  Fortune  fall  away. 
Still  we'll  banish  care  and  sadness 
As  we  turn  our  mem'ries  back. 
And  recall  those  days  of  gladness 
'Neath  the  Orange  and  the  Black. 

Clarence  B.  Mitchell. 


66 


In  School  and  College  Years 


In  Arcadie         <^      "^^      "^^      '"^^      <^      ''^ 

T  TOW  swift  the  days  fled,  one  by  one, 
■'--■-  In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie  ! 
And  when  we  thought  them  just  begun, 
(Those  happy  days  !)  the  last  was  gone, 
And  we  no  more  might  Hnger  on 
In  Arcadie. 

Fair  days,  descending  from  the  blue 

On  Arcadie,  on  Arcadie  ! 
Some  queens,  and  crowned  with  diamond  dew, 
By  gleaming  robes  of  sunlight  gold 
Enwrapt,  in  many  wind-swayed  fold, 

In  Arcadie. 

And  some  were  Quakers  clad  in  gray 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie ; 
And  passed  serenely  on  their  way. 
Silent,  as  p>ondering  some  sweet  thought. 
From  Goethe  or  from  Homer  brought, 

In  Arcadie, 

Some  days  were  angels,  white  and  tall. 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie, 
Who  led  us  to  confessional, 
There  bade  us  of  our  sins  repent, 
And  softly  blessed  us  ere  we  went, 

In  Arcadie. 

And  oreads  some,  lithe-limbed  and  strong, 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie  — 
With  laughing  eyes,  forever  young ; 

67 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Our  guides  were  they  to  mount  and  glen, 
Green-robed,  like  Robin's  merry  men, 
In  Arcadie. 

And  lo  !  we  stood  on  many  a  height 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie ; 
The  stream  that  lay  in  curves  of  light 
Before  our  feet,  through  yon  blue  rift 
Rolled  seaward,  silently  and  swift, 

Through  Arcadie. 

That  mountain-barrier,  faint  and  far 

Round  Arcadie,  round  Arcadie, 
It  shuts  us  in  with  moon  and  star. 
With  sunset  splendors,  dawn  delights, 
And  all  the  train  of  silver  nights. 

In  Arcadie ! 

And  some  there  met  who  ne'er  Avill  part. 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie ; 
For  lands  divide  not  heart  from  heart, 
And  friends  are  friends  on  sea  or  shore, 
Although  they  wander  nevermore 
In  Arcadie ! 

Josephine  A .  Cass 
of  Wellesley  College,  '80 

Trinity  College,  Cambridge    ^;>      <2y     -^^     ^;> 

T  PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 
-^  In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown ; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 
And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls ; 
68 


In  School  and  College  Years 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophet  blazon'd  on  the  panes ; 

And  caught  once  more  ihe  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  rac'ng  oars 
Among  the  willows ;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  fe't 
The  same,  but  not  the  same ;  and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  :n  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  : 
I  linger'd ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring, 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 
Would  cleave  the  mark.     A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.    Who,  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 
69 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face. 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 

In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise ; 

And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


Friends  of  Youth    ^;i^     ^Ci^     ^;:>     ^o     -"v^    -o 

nPHE  half-seen  memories  of  childish  days, 
-*■    When  pains  and  pleasures  Ughtly  came   and 
went; 
The  sympathies  of  boyhood  rashly  spent 
In  fearful  wanderings  through  forbidden  ways ; 
The  vague,  but  manly  wish  to  tread  the  maze 
Of  life  to  noble  ends,  —  whereon  intent, 
Asking  to  know  for  what  man  here  is  sent. 
The  bravest  heart  must  often  pause  and  gaze ; 
The  firm  resolve  to  seek  the  chosen  end 
Of  manhood's  judgment,  cautious  and  mature,  — 
Each  of  these  viewless  bonds  binds  friend  to  friend 
With  strength  no  selfish  purpose  can  secure : 
My  happy  lot  is  this,  that  all  attend 
That  friendship  which  first  came  and  which  shall  last 
endure. 

Aubrey  Thomas  de  Vere 
70 


In  School  and  College  Years 

Christ's  Hospital  Boys  ^o     -oy      -^ry     -c^     ^:i^ 

TN  affectionate  recollections  of  the  place  where  he 
■^  was  bred  up,  in  hearty  recognitions  of  old  school- 
fellows met  with  again  after  the  lapse  of  years,  or  in 
foreign  countries,  the  Christ's  Hospital  boy  3delds  to 
none;  I  might  almost  say  he  goes  beyond  most  other 
boys.  The  very  compass  and  magnitude  of  the  school, 
its  thousand  bearings,  the  space  it  takes  up  in  the  imagi- 
nation beyond  the  ordinary  schools,  impresses  a  remem- 
brance, accompanied  with  an  elevation  of  mind,  that 
attends  him  through  life.  It  is  too  big,  too  affecting  an 
object,  to  pass  away  quickly  from  his  mind.  The  Christ's 
Hospital  boy's  friends  at  school  are  commonly  his  inti- 
mates through  life.  For  me,  I  do  not  know  whether  a 
constitutional  imbecility  does  not  incline  me  too  obsti- 
nately to  cling  to  the  remembrances  of  childhood;  in 
an  inverted  ratio  to  the  usual  sentiments  of  mankind, 
nothing  that  I  have  been  engaged  in  since  seems  of  any 
value  or  importance,  compared  to  the  colors  which  imag- 
ination gave  to  everything  then.  I  belong  to  no  body 
corporate  such  as  I  then  made  a  part  of.  —  And  here 
before  I  close,  taking  leave  of  the  general  reader,  and 
addressing  myself  solely  to  my  old  school-feUows,  that 
were  contemporaries  with  me  from  the  year  1782  to  1789, 
let  me  have  leave  to  remember  some  of  those  circum- 
stances of  our  school,  which  they  will  not  be  unwilling 
to  have  brought  back  to  their  minds. 

And  first,  let  us  remember,  as  first  in  importance  in 
our  childish  eyes,  the  young  men  (as  they  almost  were) 
who,  under  the  denomination  of  Grecians,  were  waiting 
the  expiration  of  the  period  when  they  should  be  sent, 

71 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

at  the  charges  of  the  Hospital,  to  one  or  other  of  our 
Universities,  but  more  frequently  to  Cambridge.  These 
youths,  from  their  superior  acquirements,  their  superior 
age  and  stature,  and  the  fewness  of  their  numbers  (for 
seldom  above  two  or  three  at  a  time  were  inaugurated 
into  that  high  order),  drew  the  eyes  of  all,  and  especially 
of  the  younger  boys,  into  a  reverent  observance  and 
admiration.  How  tall  they  used  to  seem  to  us  !  —  how 
stately  would  they  pace  along  the  cloisters !  —  while 
the  play  of  the  lesser  boys  was  absolutely  suspended,  or 
its  boisterousness  at  least  allayed,  at  their  presence ! 
Not  that  they  ever  beat  or  struck  the  boys  —  that  would 
have  been  to  have  demeaned  themselves  —  the  dignity 
of  their  persons  alone  insured  them  all  respect.  The 
task  of  blows,  of  corporal  chastisement,  they  left  to  the 
common  monitors,  or  heads  of  wards,  who,  it  must  be 
confessed,  in  our  time  had  rather  too  much  license  al- 
lowed them  to  oppress  and  misuse  their  inferiors ;  and 
the  interference  of  the  Grecian,  who  may  be  considered  as 
the  spiritual  power,  was  not  unfrequently  called  tor, 
to  mitigate  by  its  mediation  the  heavy,  unrelenting  arm 
of  this  temporal  power,  or  monitor.  In  fine,  the  Grecians 
were  the  solemn  Muftis  of  the  school.  Eras  were  com- 
puted from  their  time ;  —  it  used  to  be  said,  such  or  such 

a  thing  was  done  when  S or  T was  Grecian. 

As  I  ventured  to  call  the  Grecians  the  Muftis  of  the 
school,  the  king's  boys,  as  their  character  then  was,  may 
well  pass  for  the  Janisaries.  They  were  the  terror  of  all 
the  other  boys ;  bred  up  under  that  hardy  sailor,  as  well 
as  excellent  mathematician,  and  co-navigator  with  Cap- 
tain Cook,  William  Wales.  AU  his  systems  were  adapted 
to  fit  them  for  the  rough  element  which  they  were  des- 
72 


In  School  and  College  Years 

tined  to  encounter.  Frequent  and  severe  punishments, 
which  were  expected  to  be  borne  with  more  than  Spartan 
fortitude,  came  to  be  considered  less  as  afflictions  of  dis- 
grace than  of  trials  of  obstinate  endurance.  To  make 
his  boys  hardy,  and  to  give  them  early  sailor-habits, 
seemed  to  be  his  only  aim ;  to  this  everything  was  sub- 
ordinate. Moral  obhquities,  indeed,  were  sure  of  receiv- 
ing their  full  recompense,  for  no  occasion  of  laying  on 
the  lash  was  ever  let  slip ;  but  the  effects  expected  to  be 
produced  from  it  were  something  very  different  from  con- 
trition or  mortification.  There  was  in  William  Wales  a  per- 
petual fund  of  humor,  a  constant  glee  about  him,  which, 
heightened  by  an  inveterate  provincialism  of  North- 
country  dialect,  absolutely  took  away  the  sting  from  his 
severities.  .  .  .  Hardy,  brutal,  and  often  wicked,  they 
were  the  most  graceless  lump  in  the  whole  mass ;  older  and 
bigger  than  the  other  boys  (for,  by  the  system  of  their 
education  they  were  kept  longer  at  school  by  two  or  three 
years  than  any  of  the  rest  except  the  Grecians),  they 
were  a  constant  terror  to  the  younger  part  of  the  school ; 
and  some  who  may  read  this,  I  doubt  not,  will  remember 
the  consternation  into  which  the  juvenile  fry  of  us  were 
thrown  when  the  cry  was  raised  in  the  cloisters,  that  the 
First  Order  was  coming  —  for  so  they  termed  the  first 
form  or  class  of  those  boys.  Still  these  sea-boys  an- 
swered some  good  purposes  in  the  school.  They  were  the 
military  class  among  the  boys,  foremost  in  athletic  exer- 
cises, who  extended  the  fame  of  the  prowess  of  the 
school  far  and  near :  and  the  apprentices  in  the  vicinage, 
and  sometimes  the  butchers'  boys  in  the  neighboring 
market,  had  sad  occasion  to  attest  their  valor. 

Charles  Lamb 

73 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

A  Father's  Caution  to  his  Son         ^^y     <:>     <:i^ 

"  TF  you  should  ever  come  across  any  one  who  seems  to 

-*■  you  .  .  .  different  from  yourself  and  all  the  rest  of 
us  —  one  of  the  rare  spirits  that  go  through  the  world  like 
stars,  radiating  light  —  try  to  remember  that  it's  a  great 
privilege  to  know  such  persons,  but  a  dangerous  thing  to 
love  them  too  much." 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  understand,"  said  Maurice. 
He  was  a  good-tempered,  healthy  boy,  likely  to  make 
an  excellent  officer,  and  not  at  all  likely  to  wreck  his  hap- 
piness by  caring  too  passionately  for  anything. 

Rene  passed  a  hand  through  his  grizzled  hair,  sighing. 
"No,  it's  difficult  to  explain.  You  see,  the  little  personal 
joys,  and  sorrows,  and  affections,  that  are  everything  to 
us  ordinary  mortals,  are  not  big  enough  to  fill  the  lives 
of  such  folk ;  and  if  we  set  our  hearts  on  their  friendship, 
and  think  we  possess  it,  the  chances  are  that  we're  only 
boring  them  all  the  time.  ..." 

He  pulled  himself  up  quickly,  lest  he  might  be  guilty  of 
even  one  instant's  disloyalty  to  the  tragic  shadow  whose 
eyes  stiU  haunted  him. 

"Don't  think  I  mean  they  would  wilfully  deceive  us. 

It's  small  people  who  do  that ;    the  really  big  people 

always  want  to  be  kind.     But  that's  just  it ;    they  put 

up  with  us,  out  of  compassion,  or  because  they're  grateful 

for  any  service  we  may  have  been  lucky  enough  to  do 

them.    Then,  when  we  wear  their  patience  right  out, 

and  it  breaks  down  suddenly  —  that's  bound  to  happen 

at  last,  because,  after  all,  they're  only  human  —  then  it's 

a  bit  late  for  us  to  start  life  again." 

E.  L.  Voynich 

74 


In  School  and  College  Years 

A  Test  of  Friendship       -o     -^^^y     <:>     -oy     <:> 

A /TANY  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  lad  at  a  provincial 
-•-'-^  school,  there  was,  two  or  three  miles  away  in  the 
middle  of  a  plantation  which  bordered  a  bit  of  moorland, 
a  mere  or  lake  of  considerable  size.  It  was  the  haunt  of 
various  kinds  of  water-fowl  and  the  favorite  resort  of  us 
lads  for  the  purp>ose  of  bathing  —  a  recreation  permitted 
on  certain  conditions,  one  of  which  was  a  knowledge 
of  swimming  and  the  other  that  no  boy  should  venture 
who  had  not  been  free  of  the  infirmary  for  an  entire  week. 
One  fine  day  in  autumn,  it  being  a  half-holiday,  I,  along 
with  a  chum  of  mine  named  Rowe,  some  years  my  senior, 
proceeded  to  this  particular  spot,  and  there  some  evil 
spirit  prompted  Rowe  to  bathe,  he  having  been  out  of 
the  hospital  only  four  days  and  therefore,  though  an 
excellent  swimmer,  on  the  blacklist  so  far  as  that  partic- 
ular amusement  was  concerned.  I  did  essay  a  feeble 
remonstrance  to  that  effect,  uselessly  of  course,  and,  hav- 
ing discharged  my  conscience,  I  cheerfully  undertook  to 
look  after  his  clothes.  "You'll  stick  up  to  them  if  any- 
body comes,  old  fellow?"  and  on  receiving  satisfactory 
assurance,  he  plunged  in.  I  stood  watching  him  for 
some  minutes,  and  I  have  now  the  whole  scene  before  me 
as  if  it  had  happened  but  yesterday.  The  fragrant  smell 
and  faint  rustle  of  the  firs,  the  red,  orange-colored  line 
of  the  light  as  it  fell  athwart  the  trees  on  the  ground, 
already  strewn  with  dead  leaves  and  dying  ferns,  the  dry, 
warm  air,  the  hushed  stillness  of  the  woods,  only  broken 
by  the  bound  of  a  rabbit,  the  chatter  of  a  squirrel,  or  the 
wail  of  a  plover,  the  glittering  waters  of  the  mere  as  they 
lay  in  the  sunshine,  the  white  back  and  shoulders,  and 

75 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

black  curly  bullet-shaped  head  of  Rowe,  as  he  disported 
hunself  therein.  Suddenly  I  heard  the  cracking  of  a 
twig,  and  turning  my  head  beheld  coming  along  the 
planting  in  a  direct  Une  with  me,  a  man,  gun  in  hand, 
and  that  man  our  head-master.  He  might  or  might  not 
have  seen  me,  so  I  stood  motionless,  waiting  until  he 
should  pass  a  certain  thick  clump,  under  shelter  of  which 
I  might  dispose  of  the  clothes  and  signal  to  Rowe. 

When  the  favorable  moment  came,  I  threw  the  clothes 
in  frantic  haste  into  a  dry  hole  a  few  yards  oflf,  rolled  a  clod 
of  earth  in  after  them  and  darted  back  to  my  place  with 
such  outward  composure  as  I   could  svunmon,   and  as 

H approached,  Rowe,  who  had  seen  my  movements 

and  scented  danger,  dived  like  a  Mohawk  out  of  sight. 

"Are  you  all  alone.  Smith?"  asked  H .     "Didn't 

I  see  some  one  lying  on  the  groimd  by  you  just  now?" 

I  repUed  with  some  firmness  that  there  had  been  no 
one  lying  on  the  ground,  but  I  was  deficient  in  acting  .  .  . 

"Ah  !"  said  H with  a  scrutinizing  glance,  "so  you 

are  fond  of  solitude,  making  verses,  perhaps,  or  that  kind 
of  thing,  eh  ?     I  daresay  you  wish  I  had  not  found  you  !  " 

This  I  denied,  but  faintly,  for  I  was  getting  horribly 
uncomfortable;  there  was  something  in  his  manner  I 
did  not  Uke.  Just  then  something  black  showed  above 
the  water  on  the  off  side  of  a  little  sedgy  island  about  forty 
yards  from  land,  and  by  the  nstant  stir  of  the  wild-fowl 
thereabouts  I  knew  that  what  we  both  saw  must  be 
Rowe's  head  come  up  for  breath. 

H sighted  it  very  attentively,  then  looked  at  me. 

"It  looks  like  a  water-hen,"  he  said.     I  replied  that  I 

thought  it  was.     "Or  a  sand-snipe,"  he  continued.    I 

admitted  that  it  was  possible.     "On  second  thoughts  I 

76 


In  School  and  College  Years 

believe  it's  a  wild  duck."  I  still  maintained  that  it  was 
only  a  water-hen,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  not  consider 
the  creature  worth  powder  and  shot. 

"Well,  I'll  have  a  shot  at  it  at  all  events,"  said  H , 

calmly;  "just  hold  my  flask  while  I  load." 

I  obeyed,  the  perspiration  coming  through  every  pore 
of  my  skin  the  while.  He  loaded  with  remarkable  delib- 
eration and  appeared  to  me  to  keep  one  eye  constantly 
on  Rowe's  head  and  the  other  on  my  face.  When  he 
had  completed,  he  looked  hard  at  me.  "You  wouldn't 
let  me  try  the  shot,  sir,  would  you  ?"  I  said,  with  an  anx- 
iety impossible  to  disguise. 

"No,"  replied  H ,  "I'm  afraid  you  are  too  nervous 

this  time." 

He  slowly  raised  his  gim  to  his  shoulder,  and  was  taking 
aim  deUberately  when  I  could  endure  no  longer.  I  laid 
my  little  damp,  dirty  hand  on  his  arm,  and  with  a  world 
of  beseeching  in  my  glance,  said,  "Please,  sir, — 
please,  sir,  not  to  shoot  that  bird." 

He  imcocked  his  gun  instantly.  "Very  good,  I  see," 
he  said,  without  moving  a  muscle  of  his  face.  Then 
swinging  round  suddenly  so  as  to  face  me,  he  said  abruptly, 
— "Now,  Smith  junior,  where  have  you  put  his  clothes  ?  " 
"Here,  sir,"  I  said,  running  to  the  hole  and  pointing  out 
my  friend's  garments  with  a  kind  of  cheerful  desperation. 
He  eyed  me  grimly,  —  "Now  call  that  young  fool  out  of 
the  water,  for  I'm  going  home.  And  look  here,  Smith 
junior,  if  I  catch  you  or  him  at  these  tricks  again,  by 
heaven,  I'll  pepper  both  your  hides  with  a  charge  of  small 
shot."  So  saying,  he  threw  his  gun  over  his  shoulder 
and  turned  on  his  heel. 

Cornhill  Magazine 

77 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


Our  Oldest  Friend        -c:>     -^c^     -ci.     '■;>,.     ^^ 

T  GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
^     That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me  and  you. 

When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden  blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  lasting  rays, 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air. 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  morta  strife. 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing  life, 
He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night. 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 

From  gristle  and  pulp  our  frames  have  grown 
To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone ; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 

He  came  with  us  in  the  college  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass  J 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee, 
But  the  grim  old  deadhead  entered  free. 

He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  tunes  each  of  the  seasons  four ; 
And  with  every  season  from  year  to  year. 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more  dear. 

78 


In  School  and  College  Years 

He  never  leaves  us,  —  he  never  will, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are  still. 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New  Years  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  httle  presents  is  sure  to  send ; 

Every  year,  wheresoe'er  we  be. 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  us  !  he  pats  our  heads. 
And,  lo  !  they  are  gleaming  with  silver  threads; 
And  he's  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair 
Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to  wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
"  My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done ; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity  ! ' ' 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company  I 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then, 
Our  kind  Class-Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here's  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  Classmate,  Father  Time  ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald  and  as  wise  and  as  tough  as  he  ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

79 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


Tom  Brown's  First  Grief       -Ci-      ^:i^      ^::iy      <::> 

TN  the  summer  of  1842,  Tom  Brown  had  rushed  away 
-*■  from  Oxford  the  moment  that  term  was  over,  for  a 
fishing  ramble  in  Scotland  with  two  college  friends,  and 
had  been  for  three  weeks  Uving  on  oatcake,  mutton-hams, 
and  whiskey,  in  the  wildest  parts  of  Skye.  They  had 
descended  one  sultry  evening  on  the  httle  inn  at  Kyle 
Rhea  ferry;  and  while  Tom  and  another  of  the  party 
put  their  tackle  together  and  began  exploring  the  stream 
for  a  sea-trout  for  supper,  the  third  strolled  into  the 
house  to  arrange  for  their  entertainment.  Present'y 
he  came  out  in  a  loose  blouse  and  slippers,  a  short  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  and  an  old  newspaper  in  his  hand,  and 
threw  himself  on  the  heathery  scrub  which  met  the 
shingle,  within  easy  hail  of  the  fishermen.  There  he 
lay,  the  picture  of  free-and-easy,  loafing,  hand-to-mouth 
young  England,  "improving  his  mind,"  as  he  shouted 
to  them,  by  the  perusal  of  the  fortnight-old  weekly  paper. 


"Hullo,  Brown  !  here's  something  for  you,"  called  out 
the  reading  man  next  moment.  "  Why,  your  old  master, 
Arnold  of  Rugby,  is  dead." 

Tom's  hand  stopped  halfway  in  his  cast,  and  his  line 
and  flies  went  all  tangUng  round  and  round  his  rod; 
you  might  have  knocked  him  over  with  a  feather. 
Neither  of  his  companions  took  any  notice  of  him,  luckily ; 
and  with  a  violent  effort  he  set  to  work  mechanically  to 
disentangle  his  line.  He  felt  completely  carried  off  his 
moral  and  intellectual  legs,  as  if  he  had  lost  his  standing- 
point  in  the  invisible  world.  Besides  which,  the  deep, 
80 


In  School  and  College  Years 

loving  loyalty  which  he  felt  for  his  old  leader  made  the 
shock  intensely  painful.  It  was  the  first  great  wrench  of 
his  life,  the  first  gap  which  the  angel  Death  had  made  in 
his  circle,  and  he  felt  numbed,  and  beaten  down,  and 
spiritless.  Well,  well !  I  believe  it  was  good  for  him 
and  for  many  others  in  like  case ;  who  had  to  learn  by 
that  loss,  that  the  soul  of  man  cannot  stand  or  lean  upon 
any  human  prop,  however  strong,  and  wise,  and  good; 
but  that  He  upon  whom  alone  it  can  stand  and  lean  will 
knock  away  all  such  props  in  His  own  wise  and  merciful 
way,  until  there  is  no  ground  or  stay  left  but  Himself, 
the  Rock  of  Ages,  upon  whom  alone  a  sure  foundation 
for  every  soul  of  man  is  laid. 

As  he  wearily  labored  at  his  line,  the  thought  struck 
him,  "It  may  all  be  false,  a  mere  newspaper  lie,"  and  he 
strode  up  to  the  recumbent  smoker. 

"Let  me  look  at  the  paper,"  said  he. 

"Nothing  else  in  it,"  answered  the  other,  handing  it  up 
to  him  listlessly.  —  "Hullo,  Brown  !  what's  the  matter, 
old  feUow  —  ain't  you  well  ?  " 

"WTiere  is  it?"  said  Tom,  turning  over  the  leaves, 
his  hands  trembling,  and  his  eyes  swimming,  so  that  he 
could  not  read. 

"  What  ?  What  are  you  looking  for  ?  "  said  his  friend, 
jumping  up  and  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

"That  —  about  Arnold,"  said  Tom. 

"Oh,  here,"  said  the  other,  putting  his  finger  on  the 
paragraph.  Tom  read  it  over  and  over  again;  there 
could  be  no  mistake  of  identity,  though  the  account  was 
short  enough. 

"Thank  you,"  said  he  at  last,  dropping  the  paper. 
"I  shall  go  for  a  walk;  don't  you  and  Herbert  wait 
o  8i 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

supper  for  me."  And  away  he  strode,  up  over  the  moor 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  to  be  alone,  and  master  his 
grief  if  possible. 

His  friend  looked  after  him,  sympathizing  and  wonder- 
ing, and,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  walked  over 
to  Herbert.  After  a  short  parley,  they  walked  together 
up  to  the  house. 

"I'm  afraid  that  confounded  newspaper  has  spoiled 
Brown's  fun  for  this  trip." 

"How  odd  that  he  should  be  so  fond  of  his  old  master," 
said  Herbert.  Yet  they  also  were  both  public-school 
men. 

The  two,  however,  notwithstanding  Tom's  prohibition, 
waited  supper  for  him,  and  had  everything  ready  when 
he  came  back  some  half  an  hour  afterwards.  But  he 
could  not  join  in  their  cheerful  talk,  and  the  party  was 
soon  silent,  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  all  three. 
One  thing  only  had  Tom  resolved,  and  that  was,  that  he 
couldn't  stay  in  Scotland  any  longer ;  he  felt  an  irresistible 
longing  to  get  to  Rugby,  and  then  home,  and  soon  broke 
it  to  the  others,  who  had  too  much  tact  to  oppose. 

So  by  daylight  the  next  morning  he  was  marching 
through  Ross-shire,  and  in  the  evening  hit  the  Caledonian 
canal,  took  the  next  steamer,  and  travelled  as  fast  as 
boat  and  railway  could  carry  him  to  the  Rugby  station. 

As  he  walked  up  to  the  town,  he  felt  shy  and  afraid  of 
being  seen,  and  took  the  back  streets;  why,  he  didn't 
know,  but  he  followed  his  instinct.  At  the  school  gates 
he  made  a  dead  pause ;  there  was  not  a  soul  in  the  quad- 
rangle —  aU  was  lonely,  and  silent,  and  sad.  So  with 
another  effort  he  strode  through  the  quadrangle,  and  into 
the  schoolhouse  offices. 

82 


In  School  and  College  Years 

He  found  the  little  matron  in  her  room  in  deep  mourn- 
ing ;  shook  her  hand,  tried  to  talk,  and  moved  nervously 
about:  she  was  evidently  thinking  of  the  same  subject 
as  he,  but  he  couldn't  begin  talking. 

"Where  shall  I  find  Thomas?"  said  he  at  last,  getting 
desperate. 

"In  the  servants'  hall,  I  think,  sir.  But  won't  you  take 
anything  ?  "  said  the  matron,  looking  rather  disappointed. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  he,  and  strode  off  again  to  find 
the  old  Verger,  who  was  sitting  in  his  little  den  as  of  old, 
puzzling  over  hieroglyphics. 

He  looked  up  through  his  spectacles,  as  Tom  seized 
his  hand  and  wrung  it. 

"Ah  !  you've  heard  all  about  it,  sir,  I  see,"  said  he. 

Tom  nodded,  and  then  sat  down  on  the  shoe-board, 
while  the  old  man  told  his  tale,  and  wiped  his  spectacles, 
and  fairly  flowed  over  with  quaint,  homely,  honest  sorrow. 

By  the  time  he  had  done,  Tom  felt  much  better. 

"Where  is  he  buried,  Thomas?"  said  he  at  last. 

"Under  the  altar  in  the  chapel,  sir,"  answered  Thomas. 
"You'd  like  to  have  the  key,  I  dare  say." 

"Thank  you,  Thomas  —  yes,  I  should  very  much." 
And  the  old  man  fumbled  among  his  bunch,  and  then  got 
up,  as  though  he  would  go  with  him ;  but  after  a  few  steps 
stopped  short,  and  said,  "Perhaps  you'd  like  to  go  by 
yourself,  sir?" 

Tom  nodded,  and  the  bunch  of  keys  were  handed  to 
him,  with  an  injunction  to  be  sure  and  lock  the  door  after 
him,  and  bring  them  back  before  eight  o'clock. 

He  walked  quickly  through  the  quadrangle  and  out 
into  the  close.  The  longing  which  had  been  upon  him 
and  driven  him  thus  far,  like  the  gadfly  in  the  Greek 

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The  Book  of  Friendship 

legends,  giving  him  no  rest  in  mind  or  body,  seemed  all 
of  a  sudden  not  to  be  satisfied,  but  to  shrivel  up,  and  pall. 
"Why  should  I  go  on?  It's  no  use,"  he  thought,  and 
threw  himself  at  full  length  on  the  turf,  and  looked 
vaguely  and  listlessly  at  all  the  well-known  objects. 
There  were  a  few  of  the  town  boys  playing  cricket,  their 
wicket  pitched  on  the  best  piece  in  the  middle  of  the 
Big-side  ground,  a  sin  about  equal  to  sacrilege  in  the 
eyes  of  a  captain  of  the  eleven.  He  was  very  nearly 
getting  up  to  go,  and  send  them  off.  "Pshaw!  they 
won't  remember  me.  They've  more  right  there  than  I," 
he  muttered.  And  the  thought  that  his  sceptre  had 
departed,  and  his  mark  was  wearing  out,  came  home  to 
him  for  the  first  time,  and  bitterly  enough.  He  was 
lying  on  the  very  spot  where  the  fights  came  off ;  where 
he  himself  had  fought  six  years  ago  his  first  and  last 
battle.  He  conjured  up  the  scene  till  he  could  almost 
hear  the  shouts  of  the  ring,  and  East's  whisper  in  his  ear ; 
and  looking  across  the  close  to  the  Doctor's  private  door, 
half  expected  to  see  it  open,  and  the  tall  figure  in  cap  and 
gown  come  striding  under  the  elm-trees  towards  him. 

No,  no  !  that  sight  could  never  be  seen  again.  There 
was  no  flag  flying  on  the  round  tower,  the  schoolhouse 
windows  were  all  shuttered  up ;  and  when  the  flag  went 
up  again,  and  the  shutters  came  down,  it  would  be  to 
welcome  a  stranger.  All  that  was  left  on  earth  of  him 
whom  he  had  honored,  was  lying  cold  and  stiU  under 
the  chapel  floor.  He  would  go  in  and  see  the  place  once 
more,  and  then  leave  it  once  for  all.  New  men  and  new 
methods  might  do  for  other  people ;  let  those  who  would, 
worship  the  rising  star ;  he  at  least  would  be  faithful  to 
the  sun  which  had  set.    And  so  he  got  up,  and  walked 

84 


In  School  and  College  Years 

to  the  chapel-door  and  unlocked  it,  fancying  himself  the 
only  mourner  in  all  the  broad  land,  and  feeding  on  his 
own  selfish  sorrow. 

He  passed  through  the  vestibule,  and  then  paused  for 
a  moment  to  glance  over  the  empty  benches.  His  heart 
was  still  proud  and  high,  and  he  walked  up  to  the  seat 
which  he  had  last  occupied  as  a  sixth-form  boy,  and  sat 
himself  down  there  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

And,  truth  to  tell,  they  needed  collecting  and  setting 
in  order  not  a  little.  The  memories  of  eight  years  were 
all  dancing  through  his  brain,  and  carrying  him  about 
whither  they  would;  while,  beneath  them  all,  his  heart 
was  throbbing  with  the  dull  sense  of  a  loss  that  could 
never  be  made  up  to  him.  The  rays  of  the  evening  sun 
came  solemnly  through  the  painted  windows  above  his 
head,  and  fell  in  gorgeous  colors  on  the  opposite  wall, 
and  the  i)erfect  stillness  soothed  his  spirit  by  little  and 
little.  And  he  turned  to  the  pulpit,  and  looked  at  it, 
and  then,  leaning  forward  with  his  head  on  his  hands, 
groaned  aloud.  "If  he  could  only  have  seen  the  Doctor 
again  for  one  five  minutes,  —  have  told  him  all  that  was 
in  his  heart,  what  he  owed  to  him,  how  he  loved  and  rev- 
erenced him,  and  would  by  God's  help  follow  his  steps 
in  life  and  death,  —  he  could  have  borne  it  all  without  a 
murmur.  But  that  he  should  have  gone  away  forever 
without  knowing  it  all,  was  too  much  to  bear."  —  "But 
am  I  sure  that  he  does  not  know  it  all  ?  "  —  the  thought 
made  him  start  —  "May  he  not  even  now  be  near  me, 
in  this  very  chapel  ?  If  he  be,  am  I  sorrowing  as  he  would 
have  me  sorrow  —  as  I  should  wish  to  have  sorrowed 
when  I  shall  meet  him  again  ?" 

He  raised  himself  up  antl  looked  round;   and  after  a 

85 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

minute  rose  and  walked  humbly  down  to  the  lowest 
bench,  and  sat  down  on  the  very  seat  which  he  had 
occupied  on  his  first  Sunday  at  Rugby.  And  then  the 
old  memories  rushed  back  again,  but  softened  and  sub- 
dued, and  soothing  him  as  he  let  himself  be  carried  away 
by  them.  And  he  looked  up  at  the  great  painted  window 
above  the  altar,  and  remembered  how  when  a  little  boy 
he  used  to  try  not  to  look  through  it  at  the  elm  trees  and 
the  rooks,  before  the  painted  glass  came  —  and  the  sub- 
scription for  the  painted  glass,  and  the  letter  he  wrote 
home  for  money  to  give  to  it.  And  there,  down  below, 
was  the  very  name  of  the  boy  who  sat  on  his  right  hand 
on  that  first  day,  scratched  rudely  in  the  oak  panelling. 

And  then  came  the  thought  of  all  his  old  school-fellows ; 
and  form  after  form  of  boys,  nobler,  and  braver,  and  purer 
than  he,  rose  up  and  seemed  to  rebuke  him.  .  .  .  Then  the 
grief  which  he  began  to  share  with  others  became  gentle 
and  holy,  and  he  rose  up  once  more,  and  walked  up  the 
steps  to  the  altar ;  and  while  the  tears  flowed  freely  down 
his  cheeks,  knelt  down  humbly  and  hopefully,  to  lay  down 
there  his  share  of  a  burden  which  had  proved  itself  too 
heavy  for  him  to  bear  in  his  own  strength. 

Here  let  us  leave  him  —  where  better  could  we  leave 
him,  than  at  the  altar,  before  which  he  had  first  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  glory  of  his  birthright,  and  felt  the  draw- 
ing of  the  bond  which  links  all  living  souls  together  in  one 
brotherhood  —  at  the  grave  beneath  the  altar  of  him 
who  had  opened  his  eyes  to  see  that  glory,  and  softened 
his  heart  till  it  could  feel  that  bond  ? 

Thomas  Hughes 


86 


IV 

NEIGHBORS 


87 


nPHERE  are  few  subjects  which  have  been  more  writ- 
-*•  ten  upon,  and  less  understood,  than  that  of  friend- 
ship. To  follow  the  dictates  of  some,  this  virtue  instead 
of  being  the  messenger  of  pain  becomes  the  source  of  every 
inconvenience.  Such  specialists,  by  expecting  too  much 
from  friendship,  dissolve  the  connection,  and  by  drawing 
the  bands  too  loosely  at  length  break  them.  It  is  certain 
that  the  best  method  to  cultivate  this  virtue,  is  by  letting 
it,  in  some  measure,  make  itself ;  a  similitude  of  minds  and 
of  studies,  and  even  sometimes  a  diversity  of  pursuits, 
will  produce  all  the  pleasures  that  arise  from  it.  The 
current  of  tenderness  widens  as  it  proceeds ;  and  two  men 
imperceptibly  find  their  hearts  filled  with  good  nature  for 
each  other,  when  they  were  at  first  only  in  pursuit  of 
mirth  or  relaxation. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


90 


Our  Village  <^     <^    '^^^    "^^    <^    '^^    '^^ 

f~\P  all  situations  for  a  constant  residence,  that  which 
^-^  appears  to  me  most  delightful  is  a  little  village  far 
in  the  country ;  a  small,  small  neighborhood,  not  of  fine 
mansions  finely  peopled,  but  of  cottages  and  cottage-like 
houses,  "  messuages  or  tenements,"  as  a  friend  of  mine 
calls  such  ignoble  and  nondescript  dwellings,  with 
inhabitants  whose  faces  are  as  familiar  to  us  as  the  flowers 
in  our  garden;  a  Uttle  world  of  our  own,  close-packed 
and  insulated  like  ants  in  an  ant-hill,  or  bees  in  a  hive, 
or  sheep  in  a  fold,  or  nuns  in  a  convent,  or  sailors  in  a 
ship ;  where  we  know  every  one,  are  known  to  every  one, 
interested  in  every  one,  and  authorized  to  hope  that  every 
one  feels  an  interest  in  us.  How  pleasant  it  is  to  slide 
into  these  true-hearted  feelings  from  the  kindly  and  un- 
conscious influence  of  habit,  and  to  learn  to  know  and  to 
love  the  people  about  us,  with  all  their  pecuKarities,  just 
as  we  learn  to  know  and  to  love  the  nooks  and  turns  of 
the  shady  lanes  and  sunny  commons  that  we  pass  every 
day.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Will  you  walk  with  me  through  our  village, 
courteous  reader?  The  journey  is  not  long.  We 
will  begin  at  the  lower  end,  and  proceed  up  the  hill. 

The  tidy,  square,  red  cottage  on  the  right  hand,  with 
the  long,  well-stocked  garden  by  the  side  of  the  road 
belongs  to  a  retired  publican  from  a  neighboring  town ; 
a  substantial  person  with  a  comely  wife ;  one  who  piques 
himself  on  independence  and  idleness,  talks  politics, 
reads  newspapers,  hates  the  minister,  and  cries  out  for 

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The  Book  of  Friendship 

reform.  He  introduced  into  our  peaceful  vicinage  the 
rebellious  innovation  of  an  illumination  on  the  Queen's 
acquittal.  Remonstrance  and  persuasion  were  in  vain; 
he  talked  of  liberty  and  broken  windows  —  so  we  all 
lighted  up.  Oh  !  how  he  shone  that  night  with  candles, 
and  laurel,  and  white  bows,  and  gold  paper,  and  a  trans- 
parency (originally  designed  for  a  pocket-handkerchief) 
with  a  flaming  portrait  of  her  Majesty,  hatted  and  feath- 
ered, in  red  ochre.  He  had  no  rival  in  the  village,  that 
we  all  acknowledged ;  the  very  bonfire  was  less  splendid  ; 
the  little  boys  reserved  their  best  crackers  to  be  expended 
in  his  honor,  and  he  gave  them  full  sixpence  more  than 
any  one  else.  He  would  like  an  illumination  once  a 
month ;  for  it  must  not  be  concealed  that,  in  spite  of 
gardening,  of  newspaper  reading,  of  jaunting  about  in 
his  little  cart,  and  frequenting  both  church  and  meeting, 
our  worthy  neighbor  begins  to  feel  the  weariness  of  idle- 
ness. He  hangs  over  his  gate,  and  tries  to  entice  pas- 
sengers to  stop  and  chat ;  he  volunteers  little  jobs  all 
around,  smokes  cherry  trees  to  cure  the  blight,  and  traces 
and  blows  all  the  wasps'-nests  in  the  parish.  I  have 
seen  a  great  many  wasps  in  our  garden  to-day,  and  shall 
enchant  him  with  the  inteUigence.  He  even  assists 
his  wife  in  her  sweepings  and  dustings.  Poor  man  !  he 
is  a  very  respectable  person,  and  would  be  a  very  happy 
one,  if  he  would  add  a  little  employment  to  his  dignity. 
It  would  be  the  salt  of  Hfe  to  him. 

Next  to  his  house,  though  parted  from  it  by  another 
long  garden  with  a  yew  arbor  at  the  end,  is  the  pretty 
dwelling  of  the  shoemaker,  a  pale,  sickly-looking,  black- 
haired  man,  the  very  model  of  sober  industry.  There 
he  sits  in  his  little  shop  from  early  morning  till  late  at 
92 


Neighbors 

night.  An  earthquake  would  hardly  stir  him:  the  illu- 
mination did  not.  He  stuck  immovably  to  his  last, 
from  the  first  lighting  up,  through  the  long  blaze  and  the 
slow  decay,  till  his  large  solitary  candle  was  the  only 
light  in  the  place.  One  cannot  conceive  anything  more 
perfect  than  the  contempt  which  the  man  of  transpar- 
encies and  the  man  of  shoes  must  have  felt  for  each  other 
on  that  evening.  There  was  at  least  as  much  vanity 
in  the  sturdy  industry  as  in  the  strenuous  idleness,  for 
our  shoemaker  is  a  man  of  substance ;  he  employs  three 
journeymen,  two  lame,  and  one  a  dwarf,  so  that  his  shop 
looks  like  an  hospital ;  he  has  purchased  the  lease  of  his 
commodious  dwelling,  some  even  say  that  he  has  bought 
it  out  and  out ;  and  he  has  only  one  pretty  daughter,  a 
light,  delicate,  fair-haired  girl  of  fourteen,  the  champion, 
protectress,  and  playfellow  of  every  brat  under  three 
years  old,  whom  she  jumps,  dances,  dandles,  and  feeds 
all  day  long.  A  very  attractive  person  is  that  child-lov- 
ing girl.  I  have  never  seen  any  one  in  her  station  who 
possessed  so  thoroughly  that  undefinable  charm,  the 
lady-look.  See  her  on  a  Sunday  in  her  simplicity  and 
her  white  frock,  and  she  might  pass  for  an  earl's  daughter. 
She  likes  flowers  too,  and  has  a  profusion  of  white  stocks 
under  her  window,  as  pure  and  delicate  as  herself. 

The  first  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  is  the 
blacksmith's;  a  gloomy  dwelling,  where  the  sun  never 
seems  to  shine;  dark  and  smoky  within  and  without, 
like  a  forge.  The  blacksmith  is  a  high  officer  in  our  little 
state,  nothing  less  than  a  constable ;  but,  alas !  alas ! 
when  tumults  arise,  and  the  constable  is  called  for,  he 
will  commonly  be  found  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray. 
Lucky  would  it  be  for  his  wife  And  her  eight  children  if 

93 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

there  were  no  public-house  in  the  land:  an  inveterate 
inclination  to  enter  those  bewitching  doors  is  Mr.  Con- 
stable's only  fault. 

Next  to  this  official  dwelling  is  a  spruce  brick  tenement, 
red,  high,  and  narrow,  boasting,  one  above  another,  three 
sash-windows,  the  only  sash-windows  in  the  village, 
with  a  clematis  on  one  side  and  a  rose  on  the  other, 
tall  and  narrow  hke  itself.  That  slender  mansion  has  a 
fine,  genteel  look.  The  little  parlor  seems  made  for 
Hogarth's  old  maid  and  her  stimted  footboy ;  for  tea  and 
card  parties,  —  it  would  just  hold  one  table ;  for  the 
rustle  of  faded  silks,  and  the  splendor  of  old  china,  for 
the  delight  of  four  by  honors,  and  a  little  snug,  quiet 
scandal  between  the  deal;  for  affected  gentihty  and 
real  starvation.  This  should  have  been  its  destiny, 
but  fate  has  been  unpropitious ;  it  belongs  to  a  plump, 
merry,  bustling  dame,  with  four  fat,  rosy,  noisy  children, 
the  very  essence  of  vulgarity  and  plenty. 

Then  comes  the  village  shop,  like  other  village  shops, 
multifarious  as  a  bazaar;  a  repository  for  bread,  shoes, 
tea,  cheese,  tape,  ribands,  and  bacon;  for  everything, 
in  short,  except  the  one  particular  thing  which  you  happen 
to  want  at  the  moment,  and  wiU  be  sure  not  to  find. 
The  people  are  civil,  and  thriving,  and  frugal  withal; 
they  have  let  the  upper  part  of  their  house  to  two  young 
women  (one  of  them  is  a  pretty  blue-eyed  girl)  who  teach 
httle  children  their  ABC,  and  make  caps  and  gowns  for 
their  mammas,  —  parcel  schoolmistress,  parcel  mantua 
maker.  I  believe  they  find  adorning  the  body  a  more 
profitable  vocation  than  adorning  the  mind. 

Divided  from  the  shop  by  a  narrow  yard,  and  opposite 
the  shoemaker's  is  a  habitation  of  whose  inmates  I  shall 

94 


Neighbors 

say  nothing.  A  cottage  —  no  —  a  miniature  house,  with 
many  additions,  little  odds  and  ends  of  places,  pantries, 
and  what  not ;  all  angles,  and  of  a  charming  in-and-out- 
ness ;  a  little  bricked  court  before  one  half,  and  a  little 
flower-yard  before  the  other ;  the  walls,  old  and  weather- 
stained,  covered  with  holly-hocks,  roses,  honeysuckles,  and 
a  great  apricot-tree ;  the  casements  full  of  geraniums  (ah  ! 
there  is  our  superb  white  cat  peeping  out  from  among 
them) ;  the  closets  (our  landlord  has  the  assurance  to 
call  them  rooms)  full  of  contrivances  and  corner-cup- 
boards; and  the  little  garden  behind  full  of  common 
flowers,  tulips,  pinks,  larkspurs,  peonies,  stocks,  and  car- 
nations, with  an  arbor  of  privet,  not  unlike  a  sentry- 
box,  where  one  lives  in  a  delicious  green  light  and  looks 
out  on  the  gayest  of  all  gay  flower-beds.  That  house  was 
built  on  purpose  to  show  in  what  an  exceeding  small 
compass  comfort  may  be  packed.  Well,  I  will  loiter  there 
no  longer. 

The  next  tenement  is  a  place  of  importance,  the  Rose 
Inn:  a  whitewashed  building,  retired  from  the  road 
behind  its  fine  swinging  sign,  with  a  little  bow-window 
room  coming  out  on  one  side,  and  forming,  with  our  stable 
on  the  other,  a  sort  of  open  square,  which  is  the  constant 
resort  of  carts,  wagons,  and  return  chaises.  There  are 
two  carts  there  now,  and  mine  host  is  serving  them  with 
beer  in  his  eternal  red  waistcoat.  He  is  a  thriving  man 
and  a  portly,  as  his  waistcoat  attests,  which  has  been 
twice  let  out  within  this  twelvemonth.  Our  landlord 
has  a  stirring  wife,  a  hopeful  son,  and  a  daughter,  the 
belle  of  the  village ;  not  so  pretty  as  the  fair  nymph  of 
the  shoe-shop,  and  far  less  elegant,  but  ten  times  as  fine ; 
all  curl-papers  in  the  morning,  like  a  porcupine,  all  curls 

95 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

in  the  afternoon,  like  a  poodle,  with  more  flounces  than 
curl-papers,  and  more  lovers  than  curls.  Miss  Phcebe 
is  better  for  town  than  country ;  and  to  do  her  justice, 
she  has  a  consciousness  of  that  fitness,  and  turns  her 
steps  townward  as  often  as  she  can.  She  has  gone  to 
B to-day  with  her  last  and  principal  lover,  a  recruit- 
ing sergeant  —  a  man  as  tall  as  Sergeant  Kite,  and  as 
impudent.  Some  day  or  other  he  will  carry  off  Miss 
Phoebe. 

In  a  line  with  the  bow-window  room  is  a  low  garden- 
wall,  belonging  to  a  house  under  repair  —  the  white 
house  opposite  the  coUar-maker's  shop,  with  four  lime- 
trees  before  it,  and  a  wagon-load  of  bricks  at  the  door. 
That  house  is  the  plaything  of  a  wealthy,  well-meaning, 
whimsical  person  who  lives  about  a  mile  off.  He  has 
a  passion  for  brick  and  mortar,  and,  being  too  wise 
to  meddle  with  his  own  residence,  diverts  himself  with 
altering  and  re-altering,  improving  and  re-improving, 
doing  and  undoing  here.  It  is  a  perfect  Penelope's  web. 
Carpenters  and  bricklayers  have  been  at  work  for  these 
eighteen  months,  and  yet  I  sometimes  stand  and  wonder 
whether  anything  has  really  been  done.  One  exploit 
in  last  June  was,  however,  by  no  means  equivocal.  Our 
good  neighbor  fancied  that  the  limes  shaded  the  rooms 
and  made  them  dark  (there  was  not  a  creature  in  the  house 
but  the  workmen),  so  he  had  all  the  leaves  stripped  from 
every  tree.  There  they  stood,  poor  miserable  skeletons, 
as  bare  as  Christmas  under  the  glowing  midsummer  sun. 
Nature  revenged  herself  in  her  own  sweet  and  gracious 
manner ;  fresh  leaves  sprang  out,  and  at  nearly  Christmas 
the  foliage  was  as  brilliant  as  when  the  outrage  was  com- 
mitted. 

96 


Neighbors 

Next  door  lives  a  carpenter,  "  famed  ten  miles  round, 
and  worthy  aU  his  fame,"  —  few  cabinet-makers  surpass 
him,  with  his  excellent  wife,  and  their  little  daughter 
Lizzy,  the  plaything  and  queen  of  the  village,  a  child 
three  years  old  according  to  the  register,  but  six  in  size 
and  strength  and  intellect,  in  power  and  in  self-will. 
She  manages  everybody  in  the  place,  her  schoolmistress 
included;  turns  the  wheeler's  children  out  of  their  own 
little  cart,  and  makes  them  draw  her ;  seduces  cakes  and 
loUypops  from  the  very  shop  window;  makes  the  lazy 
carry  her,  the  silent  talk  to  her,  the  grave  romp  with  her ; 
does  anything  she  pleases ;  is  absolutely  irresistible. 
Her  chief  attraction  lies  in  her  exceeding  power  of  loving, 
and  her  firm  reliance  on  the  love  and  indulgence  of  others. 
How  impossible  it  would  be  to  disappoint  the  dear  little 
girl  when  she  runs  to  meet  you,  slides  her  pretty  hand  into 
yours,  looks  up  gladly  in  your  face,  and  says,  "  Come  !  " 
You  must  go :  you  cannot  help  it.  Another  part  of  her 
charm  is  her  singular  beauty.  Together  with  a  good 
deal  of  the  character  of  Napoleon,  she  has  something 
of  his  square,  sturdy,  upright  form,  with  the  finest  limbs 
in  the  world,  a  complexion  purely  English,  a  round  laugh- 
ing face,  sunburnt  and  rosy,  large  merry  blue  eyes,  curling 
brown  hair,  and  a  wonderful  play  of  countenance.  She 
has  the  imperial  attitudes  too,  and  loves  to  stand  with 
her  hands  behind  her,  or  folded  over  her  bosom ;  and 
sometimes,  when  she  has  a  little  touch  of  shyness,  she 
clasps  them  together  on  the  top  of  her  head,  pressing 
down  her  shining  curls,  and  looking  so  exquisitely  pretty  ! 
Yes,  Lizzy  is  queen  of  the  village !  She  has  but  one 
rival  in  her  dominions,  a  certain  white  greyhound  called 
Mayflower,  much  her  friend,  who  resembles  her  in  beauty 
H  97 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

and  strength,  in  playfulness,  and  almost  in  sagacity,  and 
reigns  over  the  animal  world  as  she  over  the  human. 
They  are  both  coming  with  me,  Lizzy  and  Lizzy's  "  pretty 
May."  We  are  now  at  the  end  of  the  street;  a  cross- 
lane,  a  rope-walk  shaded  with  Umes  and  oaks,  and  a  clear 
pond  overhung  with  elms,  lead  us  to  the  bottom  of  the 
hill.  There  is  still  one  house  round  the  corner,  ending 
in  a  picturesque  wheeler's  shop.  The  dweUing-house  is 
more  ambitious.  Look  at  the  brass  knocker,  and  the 
somewhat  prim  but  very  civil  person,  who  is  sending  off 
a  laboring  man  with  sirs  and  curtsies  enough  for  a  prince 
of  the  blood.  Those  are  the  curate's  lodgings  —  apart- 
ments his  landlady  would  call  them;  he  lives  with  his 
own  family  four  miles  off,  but  once  or  twice  a  week  he 
comes  to  his  neat  little  parlor  to  write  sermons,  to  marry, 
or  to  bury,  as  the  case  may  require.  Never  were  better 
or  kinder  people  than  his  host  and  hostess ;  and  there  is 
a  reflection  of  clerical  importance  about  them  since  their 
connection  with  the  Church,  which  is  quite  edifying  — 
a  decorum,  a  gravity,  a  solemn  politeness.  Oh,  to  see 
the  worthy  wheeler  carry  the  gown  after  his  lodger  on  a 
Sunday,  nicely  pinned  up  in  his  wife's  best  handkerchief  ! 
—  or  to  hear  him  rebuke  a  squalUng  child  or  a  squabbHng 
woman !  The  curate  is  nothing  to  him.  He  is  fit  to  be 
perpetual  churchwarden.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Turning  again  up  the  hiU,  we  find  ourselves  on 
that  peculiar  charm  of  English  scenery,  a  green  common, 
divided  by  the  road ;  the  right  side  fringed  by  hedge- 
rows and  trees,  with  cottages  and  farm-houses  irregularly 
placed,  and  terminated  by  a  double  avenue  of  noble 
oaks;  the  left,  prettier  still,  dappled  by  bright  pools  of 
water,  and  islands  of  cottage-gardens,  and  sinking 
98 


Neighbors 

gradually  down  to  cornfields  and  meadows,  and  an  old 
farm-house,  with  pointed  roofs  and  clustered  chimneys 
looking  out  from  its  blooming  orchard,  and  backed  by 
woody  hills.  The  common  is  itself  the  prettiest  part  of 
the  prospect ;  half  covered  with  low  furze,  whose  golden 
blossoms  reflect  so  intensely  the  last  beams  of  the  setting 
sun,  and  alive  with  cows  and  sheep,  and  two  sets  of 
cricketers ;  one  of  young  men,  surrounded  by  spectators, 
some  standing,  some  sitting,  some  stretched  on  the  grass, 
all  taking  a  delighted  interest  in  the  game ;  the  other,  a 
merry  group  of  little  boys,  at  a  humble  distance,  for 
whom  even  cricket  is  scarcely  lively  enough,  shouting, 
leaping,  and  enjoying  themselves  to  their  hearts'  content. 
But  cricketers  and  country  boys  are  too  important  per- 
sons in  our  village  to  be  talked  of  merely  as  figures  in  the 
landscape.  They  deserve  an  individual  introduction  — 
an  essay  to  themselves  —  and  they  shall  have  it.  No 
fear  of  forgetting  the  good-humored  faces  that  meet 
us  in  our  walks  every  day. 

Mary  Mitford 

/^INTMENT  and  perfume  rejoice  the  heart;  so  doth 
^-^  the  sweetness  of  a  man's  friend  that  cometh  of 
hearty  counsel.  Thine  own  friend  and  thy  father's 
friend  forsake  not. 

Solomon 


T^RIENDSHIP  renders  prosperity  more  brilliant, 
■*•  while  it  lightens  adversity  by  sharing  it  and  mak- 
ing its  burden  common. 

Cicero 

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The  Book  of  Friendship 

Friendship  Village  <::>     •<o     -o     ^:>     ^::y     'O 

TT  is  as  if  Friendship  Village  were  to  say :  — 
-*■  "There  is  no  help  for  it.  A  telephone  line,  antique 
oak  chairs,  kitchen  cabinets,  a  new  doctor,  and  the  like 
are  upon  us.  But  we  shall  be  mediaeval  directly  —  we 
and  our  improvements.  Really,  we  are  so  now,  if  you 
know  how  to  look." 

And  are  we  not  so  ?  We  are  one  long  street,  rambUng 
from  sun  to  sun,  inheriting  traits  of  the  parent  country 
roads  which  we  unite.  And  we  are  cross  streets,  members 
of  the  same  family,  properly  imitative,  proving  our 
ancestorship  in  a  primeval  genius  for  trees,  or  bursting 
out  in  inexplicable  weaknesses  of  Court-house,  Engine 
House,  Town  Hall,  and  Telephone  Office.  Ultimately  our 
stock  dwindles  out  in  a  slaughter-yard  and  a  few  detached 
houses  of  milkmen.  The  cemetery  is  delicately  put 
behind  us,  under  a  hill.  There  is  nothing  mediaeval  in 
all  this,  one  would  say.  But  then  see  how  we  wear  our 
rue:  — 

When  one  of  us  telephones,  she  will  scrupulously  ask 
for  the  number,  not  the  name,  for  it  says  so  at  the  top  of 
every  page.  "  Give  me  one-one,"  she  will  put  it,  with  an 
impersonality  as  fine  as  if  she  were  calling  for  four  figures. 
And  Central  will  answer :  — 

"Well,  I  just  saw  Mis'  Holcomb  go  'crost  the  street. 
I'll  call  you,  if  you  want,  when  she  comes  back." 

Or,  "I  don't  think  you  better  ring  the  Helmans'  just 
now.  They  were  awake  'most  all  night  with  one  o'  Mis' 
Helman's  attacks." 

Or,  "Doctor  June's  invited  to  Mis'  Sykes's  for  tea. 
Shall  I  give  him  to  you  there  ?  " 

lOO 


Neighbors 

The  telephone  is  modern  enough.  But  m  our  use  of 
it  is  there  not  a  flavor  as  of  an  Elder  Time,  to  be  caught 
by  Them  of  Many  Years  from  Now?  And  already  we 
may  catch  this  flavor,  as  our  Britain  great-great-lady 
grandmothers,  and  more,  may  have  been  conscious  of 
the  old  fashion  of  sitting  in  bowers.  If  only  they  were 
conscious  like  that !  To  be  sure  of  it  would  be  to  touch 
their  hands  in  the  margins  of  the  ballad  books. 

Or  we  telephone  to  the  Livery  Barn  and  Boarding  Stable 
for  the  little  blacks,  celebrated  for  their  self-control  in 
encounters  with  the  Proudfits'  motor-car.  The  stable- 
boy  answers  that  the  httle  blacks  are  at  "the  funeral." 
And  after  he  has  gone  off  to  ask  his  employer  what  is  in 
then,  the  employer,  who  in  his  unofficial  moments  is  our 
neighbor,  our  church  choir  bass,  our  landlord  even, 
comes  and  tells  us  that,  after  all,  we  may  have  the  httle 
blacks,  and  he  himself  brings  them  around  at  once,  — 
the  same  little  blacks  that  we  meant  all  along.  And 
when,  quite  naturally,  we  wonder  at  the  boy's  version, 
we  learn:  "Oh,  why,  the  blacks  was  standin'  just  acrost 
the  street,  waitin'  at  the  church  door,  hitched  to  the 
hearse.  I  took  'em  out  an'  put  in  the  bays.  I  says  to 
myself:  'The  corp  won't  care.'"  Someway  the  Proud- 
fits'  car  and  the  stable  telephone  must  themselves  have 
slipped  from  modernity  to  old  fashion  before  that  inci- 
dent shall  quite  come  into  its  own. 

So  it  is  with  certain  of  our  domestic  ways.  For  ex- 
ample, Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  —  in  Friendship  Village 
every  woman  assumes  for  given  name  the  employment  of 
her  husband  —  has  some  fine  modern  china  and  much 
solid  silver  in  extremely  good  taste,  so  much,  indeed,  that 
she  is  wont  to  confess  to  having  cleaned  forty,  or  sixty, 
xoz 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

or  seventy-five  pieces  —  "seventy-five  pieces  of  solid 
silver  have  I  cleaned  this  morning.  You  can  say  what 
you  want  to,  nice  things  are  a  rill  care."  Yet  —  surely 
this  is  the  proper  conjunction  —  Mis'  Sykes  is  currently 
reported  to  rise  in  the  night  preceding  the  days  of  her 
house  cleaning,  and  to  take  her  carpets  out  in  the  back 
yard,  and  there  softly  to  sweep  and  sweep  them  so  that, 
at  their  official  cleaning  next  day,  the  neighbors  may 
witness  how  little  dirt  is  whipped  out  on  the  hne.  Ought 
she  not  to  have  old-fashioned  silver  and  egg-sheU  china 
and  drop-leaf  mahogany  to  fit  the  practice  ?  Instead  of 
daisy  and  wild-rose  patterns  in  "sohd,"  and  art  curtains, 
and  mission  chairs,  and  a  white-enameUed  refrigerator, 
and  a  gas  range. 

We  have  the  latest  funeral  equipment,  —  black  broad- 
cloth-covered supports,  a  coffin  carriage  for  up-and-down 
the  aisles,  natural  palms  to  order,  and  the  pulleys  to  "let 
them  down  slow" ;  and  yet  our  individual  funeral  capac- 
ity has  been  such  that  we  can  tell  what  every  woman 
who  has  died  in  Friendship  for  years  has  "done  without"  : 
Mis'  Grocer  Stew,  her  of  aU  folks,  had  done  without 
new-style  flat-irons ;  Mis'  Worth  had  used  the  bread  pan 
to  wash  dishes  in ;  Mis'  Jeweller  Sprague  —  the  first 
Mis'  Sprague  —  had  had  only  six  bread  and  butter 
knives,  her  that  could  get  wholesale  too.  .  .  .  And  we 
have  little  maid-servants  who  answer  our  bells  in  caps  and 
trays,  so  to  say ;  but  this  savor  of  jestership  is  authentic, 
for  any  one  of  them  is  hkely  to  do  as  of  late  did  Mis' 
Holcomb-that-was-Mame  Bhss's  maid,  —  answer,  at 
dinner-with-guests,  that  there  were  no  more  mashed 
potatoes,  "or  else,  there  won't  be  any  left  to  warm  up 
for  your  breakfasts."  .  .  .    And  though  we  have  our 

I02 


Neighbors 

daily  newspaper,  receiving  Associated  Press  service, 
yet,  as  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  observed,  it  is  "only  very 
lately  that  they  have  mentioned  in  the  Daily  the  birth 
of  a  child,  or  anything  that  had  anything  of  a  iang 
to  it." 

We  put  new  wine  in  old  bottles,  but  also  we  use  new 
bottles  to  hold  our  old  wine.  For,  consider  the  name 
of  our  main  street:  is  this  Main  or  Clark  or  Cook  or 
Grand  Street,  according  to  the  register  of  the  main  streets 
of  towns?  Instead,  for  its  half-mile  of  village  life,  the 
Plank  Road,  macadamized  and  arc-lighted,  is  called 
Daphne  Street.  Daphne  Street !  I  love  to  wonder  why. 
Did  our  dear  Doctor  June's  father  name  it  when  he  set 
the  five  hundred  elms  and  oaks  which  glorify  us?  Or 
did  Daphne  herself  take  this  way  on  the  day  of  her  flight, 
so  that  when  they  came  to  draught  the  town,  they  recog- 
nized that  it  was  Daphne  Street,  and  so  were  spared  the 
trouble  of  naming  it  ?  Or  did  the  Future  anonymously 
toss  us  back  the  suggestion,  thrifty  of  some  day  of  her 
own  when  she  might  remember  us  and  say,  "Daphne 
Street!"  Already  some  of  us  smile  with  a  secret  nod  at 
something  when  we  direct  a  stranger,  "You  will  find  the 
Telegraph  and  Cable  Office  two  blocks  down,  on  Daphne 
Street."  "The  Commercial  Travellers'  House,  the  Abi- 
gail Arnold  Home  Bakery,  the  Post-office,  and  Armory 
are  in  the  same  block  on  Daphne  Street."  Or,  "The 
Electric  LightOffice  is  at  the  corner  of  Dunn  and  Daphne." 
It  is  not  wonderful  that  Daphne  herself,  foreseeing  these 
things,  did  not  stay,  but  lifted  her  laurels  somewhat 
nearer  Tempe,  —  although  there  are  those  of  us  who 
like  to  fancy  that  she  is  here  all  the  time  in  our  Daphne- 
street  magic:  the  fire  bell,  the  tulip  beds,  and  the  twi- 
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The  Book  of  Friendship 

light  bonfires.  For  how  else,  in  all  reason,  has  the  name 
persisted  ? 

Of  late  a  new  doctor  has  appeared  —  one  may  say, 
has  abounded :  a  surgeon  who,  such  is  his  zeal,  will  almost 
perform  an  operation  over  the  telephone  and,  we  have 
come  somewhat  cynically  to  beheve,  would  prefer  doing 
so  to  not  operating  at  all.     As  Calliope  Marsh  puts  it :  — 

"He  is  great  on  operations,  that  little  doctor.  Let 
him  go  into  any  house,  an'  some  o'  the  family,  seems 
though,  has  to  be  operated  on,  usually  inside  o'  twelve 
hours.  It'll  get  so  that  as  soon  as  he  strikes  the  front 
porch,  they'll  commence  sterilizin'  water.  I  donno  but 
some'll  go  an'  put  on  the  tea-kettle  if  they  even  see  him 
drive  past." 

Why  within  twelve  hours,  we  wonder  when  we  hear 
the  edict  ?  Why  never  fourteen  hours,  or  six  ?  How 
does  it  happen  that  no  matter  at  what  stage  of  the  malady 
the  new  doctor  is  called,  the  patient  always  has  to  be 
operated  on  within  twelve  hours  ?  Is  it  that  everybody 
has  a  bunch  and  goes  about  not  knowing  it  until  he 
appears  ?  Or  is  he  a  kind  of  basanite  for  bunches,  and 
do  they  come  out  on  us  at  the  sight  of  him  ?  There  are 
those  of  us  who  almost  hesitate  to  take  his  hand,  fearing 
that  he  will  fix  us  with  his  eye,  point  somewhere  about, 
and  tell  us,  "Within  twelve  hours,  if  you  want  your  life 
your  own."  But  in  spite  of  his  skill  and  his  modernity, 
in  our  midst  there  persist  those  who,  in  a  scientific  night, 
would  die  rather  than  risk  our  advantages. 

Thus  the  New  shoulders  the  Old,  and  our  transition  is 

still  swift  enough  to  be  a  spectacle,  as  was  its  earlier  phase 

which  gave  over  our  Middle  West  to  cabins  and  plough 

horses,  with  a  tendency  away  from  wigwams  and  bob- 

104 


Neighbors 

whites.  And  in  this  local  warfare  between  Old  and  New 
a  chief  figure  is  Calliope  Marsh  —  who  just  said  that 
about  the  new  doctor.  She  is  a  Uttle  rosy  wrinkled  crea- 
ture officially  —  though  no  other  than  officially  —  per- 
taining to  sixty  years ;  mender  of  lace,  seller  of  extracts 
and  music  teacher,  but  of  the  three  she  thinks  of  the  last 
as  her  true  vocation.  ("I  come  honestly  by  that,"  she 
says.  "You  know  my  father  before  me  was  rill  musical. 
I  was  baptized  CalUope  because  a  circus  with  one  came 
through  the  town  the  day  't  I  was  born.")  And  with 
her,  too,  the  grafting  of  to-morrow  upon  yesterday  is 
unconscious ;  or  only  momentarily  conscious,  as  when  she 
phrased  it :  — 

"Land,  land,  I  hke  New  as  well  as  anybody.  But  I 
want  it  should  be  put  in  the  Old  kind  o'  gentle,  hke  an' 
i-dee  in  your  mind,  an'  not  sudden,  like  a  bullet  in  your 
brain." 

In  her  acceptance  of  innovations  Calliope  symbolizes 
the  fine  Friendship  tendency  to  scientific  procedure,  to 
the  penetration  of  the  unknown  through  the  known, 
the  explication  of  mystery  by  natural  law.  And  when 
to  the  bright-figured  paper  and  pictures  of  her  httle  sitting 
room  she  had  added  a  print  of  the  "  Mona  Lisa,"  she 
observed :  — 

"  She  sot  o'  hf ts  me  up,  like  somethin'  I've  thought  of, 
myself.  But  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  raisin'  a  question 
about  what  her  smile  means.  I  told  the  agent  so. 
'Whenever  I  set  for  my  photograph,'  I  says  to  him,  *I 
always  have  that  same  silly  smile  on  my  face.'" 

With  us  all  the  Friendship  idea  prevails:  we  accept 
what  Progress  sends,  but  we  regard  it  in  our  own  fashion. 
Our  improvements,  hke  our  entertainments,  our  funerals, 

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The  Book  of  Friendship 

our  holidays,  and  our  very  loves,  are  but  Friendship 
Village  exponents  of  the  modern  spirit.  Perhaps,  in  a 
tenderer  significance  than  she  meant,  Calliope  character- 
ized us  when  she  said :  — 

"This  town  is  more  like  a  back  door  than  a  front  — 
or,  givin'  it  full  credit,  anyhow,  it's  no  more'n  a  side  door, 
with  no  vines." 

For  indeed,  we  are  a  kind  of  middle  door  to  experience, 
minus  the  fuss  of  official  arriving  and,  too,  without  the 
old  odors  of  the  kitchen  savory  beds;  but  having, 
instead,  a  serene  side-door  existence,  partaking  of  both 
electric  bells  and  of  neighbors  with  shawls  pinned  over 
their  heads. 

Only  at  one  point  Calliope  was  wrong.  There  are 
vines,  with  tendrils  and  flowers  and  many  birds. 

Zona  Gale 

Our  Village    ^v>     ^;^     <:>     'n::^     -Qv     <:>     <^ 

|UR  village,  that's  to  say,  not  Miss  Mitford's  vil- 


O' 


lage,  but  our  village  of  Bullock's  Smithy, 
Is  come  into  by  an  avenue  of  trees,  three  oak  poUards, 

two  elders  and  a  withy; 
And  in  the  middle  there's  a  green,  of  about  not  exceeding 

an  acre  and  a  half ; 
It's  common  to  all,  and  fed  off  by  nineteen  cows,  six 

I)onies,  three  horses,  five  asses,  two  foals,  seven  pigs, 

and  a  calf ! 
Besides  a  pond  in  the  middle,  as  is  held  by  a  sort  of  com- 
mon law  lease. 
And  contains  twenty  ducks,  six  drakes,  three  ganders, 

two  dead  dogs,  four  drowned  kittens,  and  twelve 

geese. 

1 06 


Neighbors 

Of  course  the  green's  cropt  very  close,  and  does  famous 
for  bowling  when  the  Uttle  village  boys  play  at 
cricket ; 

Only  some  horse,  or  pig,  or  cow,  or  great  jackass,  is  sure  to 
come  and  stand  right  before  the  wicket. 

There's  fifty-five  private  houses,  let  alone  barns  and  work- 
shops, and  pigsties,  and  poultry  huts,  and  such-like 
sheds, 

With  plenty  of  pubUc-houses  —  two  Foxes,  one  Green 
Man,  three  Bunch  of  Grapes,  one  Crown,  and  six 
King's  Heads. 

The  Green  Man  is  reckoned  the  best,  as  the  only  one  that 

for  love  or  money  can  raise 
A  postilion,  a  blue  jacket,  two  deplorable  lame  white 

horses,  and  a  ramshackle  "  neat  postchaise  "  ! 
There's  one  parish  church  for  all  the  people,  whatsoever 

may  be  their  ranks  in  Ufe  or  their  degrees, 
Except  one  very  damp,  small,  dark,  freezing  cold,  little 

Methodist  Chapel  of  Ease ; 
And  close  by  the  churchyard  there's  a  stonemason's  yard, 

that  when  the  time  is  seasonable 
Will  furnish  with  afflictions  sore  and  marble  urns  and 

cherubims,  very  low  and  reasonable. 
There's  a  cage  comfortable  enough ;  I've  been  in  it  with 

Old  Jack  Jeff ery  and  Tom  Pike ; 
For  the  Green  Man  next  door  will  send  you  in  ale,  gin, 

or  anything  else  you  like. 
I  can't  speak  of  the  stocks,  as  nothing  remains  of  them 

but  the  upright  post ; 
But  the  pound  is  kept  in  repairs  for  the  sake  of  Cob's 

horse  as  is  always  there  almost. 
107 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

There's  a  smithy  of  course,  where  that  queer  sort  of  a 

chap  in  his  way,  Old  Joe  Bradley, 
Perpetually  hammers  and  stammers,  for  he  stutters  and 

shoes  horses  very  badly. 
There's  a  shop  of  all  sorts  that  sells  everything,  kept  by 

the  widow  of  Mr.  Task ; 
But  when  you  go  there  it's  ten  to  one  she's  out  of  every- 
thing you  ask. 
You'll  know  her  house  by  the  swarm  of  boys,  like  flies, 

about  the  old  sugary  cask : 
There  are  six  empty  houses  and  not  so  well  papered  inside 

as  out. 
For  bill-stickers  won't  beware,  but  stick  notices  of  sales 

and  election  placards  all  about. 
That's  the  Doctor's  with  a  green  door,  where  the  garden 

pots  in  the  window  are  seen : 
A  weakly  monthly  rose  that  don't  blow,  and  a  dead 

geranium,  and  a  tea-plant  with  five  black  leaves, 

and  one  green. 
As  for  hollyhocks  at  the  cottage  doors,  and  honeysuckles 

and  jasmines,  you  may  go  and  whistle ; 
But  the  Tailor's  front  garden  grows  two  cabbages,   a 

dock,  a  ha'porth  of   pennyroyal,  two    dandelions, 

and  a  thistle ! 
There   are   three   small   orchards  —  Mr.   Bushby's   the 

schoolmaster's  is  the  chief  — 
With  two  pear  trees  that  don't  bear ;  one  plum,  and  an 

apple  that  every  year  is  stripped  by  a  thief. 
There's  another  small  day-school  too,  kept  by  the  re- 
spectable Mrs.  Gaby, 
A  select  establishment  for  six  little  boys,  and  one  big, 

and  four  little  girls  and  a  baby ; 
io8 


Neighbors 

There's  a  rectory  with  pointed  gables  and  strange,  odd 

chimneys  that  never  smoke, 
For  the  Rector  don't  hve  on  his  Uving  like  other  Chris 

tian  sort  of  folks ; 
There's  a  barber's  once  a  week  well  filled  with  rough, 

black-bearded,  shock-headed  churls, 
And  a  window  with  two  feminine  men's  heads,  and  two 

masculine  ladies  in  false  curls ; 
There's  a  butcher,  and  a  carpenter's,  and  a  plumber, 

and  a  small  greengrocer's,  and  a  baker, 
But  he  won't  bake  on  a  Sunday;   and  there's  a  sexton 

that's  a  coal  merchant  besides,  and  an  undertaker ; 
And  a  toyshop,  but  not  a  whole  one,  for  a  village  can't 

compare  with  the  London  shops ; 
One  window  sells  drums,  doUs,  kites,  carts,  bats.  Clout's 

balls,  and  the  other  sells  malt  and  hops. 
And  Mrs.  Brown,  in  domestic  economy  not  to  be  a  bit 

behind  her  betters, 
Lets  her  house  to  a  milliner,  a  watchmaker,  a  rat-catcher, 

a  cobbler,  lives  in  it  herself,  and  it's  the  post-oflSce 

for  letters. 
Now  I've  gone  through  all  the  village  —  ay,  from  end  to 

end,  save  and  except  one  more  house. 
But  I  haven't  come  to  that  —  and  I  hope  I  never  shall  — 

and  that's  the  village  Poor  House ! 

Thomas  Hood 

A  FAITHFLT^  friend  is  a  strong  defence;  and  he  that 
■^*-  hath  found  such  a  one  hath  found  a  treasure. 
Nothing  doth  countervail  a  faithful  friend,  and  his  ex- 
cellency is  invaluable. 

Proverbs 
109 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


England  to  America        ^o     -;^     <::y     <;;:>     -q> 

^^  rHAT  is  the  voice  I  hear 
*  '       On  the  winds  of  the  western  sea  ? 

Sentinel,  listen  from  our  Cape  Clear 
And  say  what  the  voice  may  be. 
'Tis  a  proud,  free  people  calhng  loud  to  a  people 
proud  and  free 

And  it  says  to  them :  "Kinsmen,  haU ; 

We  severed  have  been  too  long. 
Now  let  us  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale  — 

The  tale  of  ancient  wrong  — 

And  our  friendship  last  long  as  our  love  doth  and 
be  stronger  than  death  is  strong." 

Answer  them,  sons  of  the  self-same  race, 

And  blood  of  the  self-same  clan ; 
Let  us  speak  with  each  other  face  to  face 

And  answer  as  man  to  man, 

And  loyally  love  and  trust  each  other  as  none  but 
freemen  can. 

Now  fling  them  out  the  breeze, 

Shamrock,  Thistle,  and  Rose, 
And  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  imfurl  with  these  — 

A  message  to  friends  and  oes 

Wherever  the  sails  of  peace  are  seen  and  wherever 
the  war  wind  blows  — 

A  message  to  bond  and  thrall  to  wake, 

For  wherever  we  come,  we  twain, 
The  throne  of  the  tyrant  shall  rock  and  quake, 
no 


Neighbors 

And  his  menace  be  void  and  vain, 
For  you  are  lords  of  a  strong  land  and  we  are  lords 
of  the  main. 

Yes,  this  is  the  voice  of  the  blufiF  March  gale ; 

We  severed  have  been  too  long, 
But  now  we  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale  — 
The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong  — 
And  our  friendship  lasts  long  as  love  lasts  and 
stronger  than  death  is  strong. 

Alfred  Austin 

Charles  Lamb's  Nearest  Neighbor    ^oy    ^^^^    <::> 

iy /TY  late  friend  was  in  many  respects  a  singular  char- 
^^ ^  acter.  Those  who  did  not  like  him,  hated  him ;  and 
some,  who  once  liked  him,  afterwards  became  his  bitterest 
haters.  The  truth  is,  he  gave  himself  too  httle  concern 
what  he  uttered,  and  in  whose  presence.  He  observed 
neither  time  nor  place,  and  would  e'en  out  with  what 
came  uppermost.  With  the  severe  religionist  he  would 
pass  for  a  free-thinker ;  while  the  other  faction  set  him 
down  for  a  bigot,  or  persuaded  themselves  that  he  beUed 
his  sentiments.  Few  understood  him,  and  I  am  not 
certain  that  at  all  times  he  quite  understood  himself. 
He  too  much  affected  that  dangerous  figure  —  irony. 
He  sowed  doubtful  speeches,  and  reaped  plain,  unequiv- 
ocal hatred.  He  would  interrupt  the  gravest  discus- 
sion with  some  light  jest;  and  yet,  perhaps,  not  quite 
irrelevant  in  ears  that  could  understand  it.  Your  long 
and  much  talkers  hated  him.  The  informal  habit  of  his 
mind,  joined  to  an  inveterate  impediment  of  speech, 
forbade  him  to  be  an  orator ;  and  he  seemed  determined 
III 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

that  no  one  else  should  play  that  part  when  he  was  pres- 
ent. He  was  petit  and  ordinary  in  his  person  and  ap- 
pearance. I  have  seen  him  sometimes  in  what  is  called 
good  company,  but  where  he  has  been  a  stranger,  sit 
silent  and  be  suspected  for  an  odd  fellow ;  till  some  un- 
lucky occasion  provoking  it,  he  would  stutter  out  some 
senseless  pun  (not  altogether  senseless,  perhaps,  if  rightly 
taken)  which  has  stamped  his  character  for  the  evening. 
It  was  hit  or  miss  with  him ;  but  nine  times  out  of  ten 
he  contrived  by  this  device  to  send  away  a  whole  com- 
pany his  enemies.  His  conceptions  rose  kindlier  than  his 
utterance,  and  his  happiest  impromptus  had  the  appear- 
ance of  effort.  He  has  been  accused  of  trying  to  be 
witty,  when  in  truth  he  was  but  struggling  to  give  his 
poor  thoughts  articulation.  He  chose  his  companions 
for  some  individuahty  of  character  which  they  mani- 
fested. Hence  not  many  persons  of  science,  and  few 
professed  literati,  were  of  his  councils.  They  were,  for 
the  most  part,  persons  of  an  uncertain  fortune;  and  as 
to  such  people  commonly  nothing  is  more  obnoxious 
than  a  gentleman  of  settled  (though  moderate)  income, 
he  passed  with  most  of  them  for  a  great  miser.  To  my 
knowledge  this  was  a  mistake.  His  intimados,  to  confess 
a  truth,  were  in  the  world's  eye  a  ragged  regiment.  He 
foimd  them  floating  on  the  surface  of  society;  and  the 
color,  or  something  else,  in  the  weed  pleased  him.  The 
burrs  stuck  to  him ;  but  they  were  good  and  loving  burrs 
for  all  that.  He  never  greatly  cared  for  the  society  of 
what  are  called  good  people.  If  any  of  these  were  scan- 
dalized (and  offences  were  sure  to  arise)  he  could  not  help 
it.  When  he  has  been  remonstrated  with  for  not  making 
more  concessions  to  the  feelings  of  good  people,  he  would 

112 


Neighbors 

retort  by  asking  what  one  point  did  these  good  people 
ever  concede  to  him  ?  He  was  temperate  in  his  meals 
and  diversions,  but  always  kept  a  little  on  this  side  of 
abstemiousness.  Only  in  the  use  of  the  Indian  weed  he 
might  be  thought  a  little  excessive.  He  took  it,  he 
would  say,  as  a  solvent  of  speech.  Marry  —  as  the 
friendly  vapwr  ascended,  how  his  prattle  would  curl  up 
sometimes  with  it !  the  ligaments  which  tongue-tied  him 
were  loosened,  and  the  stammerer  proceeded  a  statist ! 
"By  a  friend  of  the  late  Elia" 


Who  is  my  Neighbor  ?      -c::v     <::>      -c^     <:>>. 

A  CERTAIN  man  was  going  down  from  Jerusalem 
■^*-  to  Jericho  ;  and  he  fell  among  robbers,  which  both 
stripped  him  and  beat  him,  and  departed,  leaving  him 
half  dead.  And  by  chance  a  certain  priest  was  going 
down  that  way  :  and  when  he  saw  him,  he  passed  by  on 
the  other  side.  And  in  like  manner  a  Levitc  also,  when 
he  came  to  the  place,  and  saw  him,  passed  by  on  the 
other  side.  But  a  certain  Samaritan,  as  he  journeyed, 
came  where  he  was :  and  when  he  saw  him,  he  was 
moved  with  compassion,  and  came  to  him,  and  bound 
up  his  wounds,  pouring  on  them  oil  and  wine ;  and  he 
set  him  on  his  own  beast,  and  brought  him  to  an  inn, 
and  took  care  of  him.  And  on  the  morrow  he  took  out 
two  pence,  and  gave  them  to  the  host,  and  said.  Take 
care  of  him  ;  and  whatsoever  thou  spendest  more,  I, 
when  I  come  back  again,  will  repay  thee.  Which  of 
these  three,  thinkest  thou,  proved  neighbor  unto  him 
that  fell  among  the  robbers?  And  he  said,  He  that 
I  113 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

shewed  mercy  on  him.     And  Jesus  said  unto  him,  Go, 
and  do  thou  Ukewise. 

From  the  Gospel  oj  St.  Luke. 


A  CERTAIN  proportion  of  the  people  who  passed 
■^^  by  the  crippled  seller  of  shoe-strings  on  the  street 
corner  bought  from  him,  telling  him  to  keep  the  change. 
A  certain  other  proportion  thought  to  themselves  that 
such  beggars  ought  to  be  kept  off  the  streets,  and  went 
their  way.  Another  proportion  really  did  not  perceive 
him,  merely  accepting  him  as  part  of  the  street  sur- 
roundings. One  man  brought  him  to  the  attention  of 
the  Associated  Charities,  where  he  found  friends  and 
resources  to  give  him  the  chance  he  needed.  Which 
now  of  these  three,  thinkest  thou,  was  neighbor  unto 
him  that  fell  by  the  way  ? 

Mary  Conyngton. 


114 


V 

FRIENDS   IN   NEED 


"5 


FRIENDS  IN  NEED 


A  Friend  in  Need 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Kentucky 

Martha 

A  Merchant  of  Venice 

Sanctuary  in  Alsatia 

The  War  Correspondents 


\f-i/^ .    .   ., 


^V 


rr-^,-- 


OO  long  as  we  love  we  serve;  so  long  as  we  are  loved 
^^  by  others  I  would  almost  say  that  we  are  indis- 
pensable; and  no  man  is  useless  while  he  has  a  friend. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


ii8 


A  Friend  in  Need     ^cy     -vi».     -c^.     ^cy     <::>     -v>y 

TIJ'OR  many  weeks  I  had  walked  at  nights  with  this  poor 
-'■  friendless  giri  up  and  down  Oxford  Street,  or  had 
rested  with  her  on  steps  and  under  the  shelter  of  por- 
ticos. She  could  not  be  so  old  as  myself :  she  told  me, 
indeed,  that  she  had  not  completed  her  sixteenth  year. 
By  such  questions  as  my  interest  about  her  prompted, 
I  had  gradually  drawn  forth  her  simple  history.  Hers 
was  a  case  of  ordinary  occurrence  (as  I  have  since  had 
reason  to  think),  and  one  in  which,  if  London  beneficence 
had  better  adapted  its  arrangements  to  meet  it,  the  power 
of  the  law  might  oftener  be  interposed  to  protect,  and  to 
avenge.  But  the  stream  of  London  charity  flows  in  a 
channel  which,  though  deep  and  mighty,  is  yet  noiseless 
and  underground;  not  obvious  or  readily  accessible  to 
poor  houseless  wanderers :  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  outside  air  and  framework  of  London  society  is  harsh, 
cruel,  and  repulsive.  In  any  case,  however,  I  saw  that 
part  of  her  injuries  might  easily  have  been  redressed: 
and  I  urged  her  often  and  earnestly  to  lay  her  complaint 
before  a  magistrate :  friendless  as  she  was,  I  assured  her 
that  she  would  meet  with  immediate  attention ;  and  that 
English  justice,  which  was  no  respecter  of  persons,  would 
speedily  and  amply  avenge  her  on  the  brutal  ruffian  who 
had  plundered  her  property.  She  promised  me  often 
that  she  would ;  but  she  delayed  taking  the  steps  I 
pointed  out  from  time  to  time;  for  she  was  timid  and 
defected  to  a  degree  which  showed  how  deeply  sorrow  had 
taken  hold  of  her  young  heart;  and  perhaps  she  thought 
119 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

justly  that  the  most  upright  judge,  and  the  most  righteous 
tribunals,  could  do  nothing  to  repair  her  heaviest  wrongs. 
Something,  however,  would  perhaps  have  been  done; 
for  it  had  been  settled  between  us  at  length,  but  imhappily 
on  the  very  last  time  but  one  that  I  was  ever  to  see  her, 
that  in  a  day  or  two  we  should  go  together  before  a  mag- 
istrate, and  that  I  should  speak  on  her  behalf.  This 
little  service  it  was  destined,  however,  that  I  should  never 
reahze.  Meantime,  that  which  she  rendered  to  me,  and 
which  was  greater  than  I  could  ever  have  repaid  her,  was 
this:  One  night,  when  we  were  pacing  slowly  along 
Oxford  Street,  and  after  a  day  when  I  had  felt  more  than 
usually  ill  and  faint,  I  requested  her  to  turn  oflf  with  me 
into  Soho  Square :  thither  we  went :  and  we  sate  down  on 
the  steps  of  a  house,  which,  to  this  hour,  I  never  pass 
without  a  pang  of  grief,  and  an  inner  act  of  homage  to 
the  spirit  of  that  unhappy  girl,  in  memory  of  the  noble 
action  which  she  there  performed.  Suddenly,  as  we  sate, 
I  grew  much  worse :  I  had  been  leaning  my  head  against 
her  bosom ;  and  all  at  once  I  sank  from  her  arms  and  fell 
backwards  on  the  steps.  From  the  sensations  I  then  had, 
I  felt  an  inner  conviction  of  the  HveUest  kind  that  without 
some  powerful  and  reviving  stimulus,  I  should  either  have 
died  on  the  spot,  or  should  at  least  have  sunk  to  a  point 
of  exhaustion  from  which  all  reascent  under  my  friendless 
circumstances  would  soon  have  become  hopeless.  Then 
it  was,  at  this  crisis  of  my  fate,  that  my  poor  orphan 
companion,  —  who  had  herself  met  with  Uttle  but  in- 
juries in  this  world,  —  stretched  out  a  saving  hand  to  me. 
Uttering  a  cry  of  terror,  but  without  a  moment's  delay, 
she  ran  off  into  Oxford  Street,  and  in  less  time  than  could 
be  imagined,  returned  to  me  with  a  glass  of  port  wine  and 

I20 


Friends  in  Need 

spices,  that  acted  upon  my  empty  stomach  (which  at  that 
time  would  have  rejected  all  solid  food)  with  an  instanta- 
neous power  of  restoration :  and  for  this  glass  the  generous 
girl  without  a  murmur  paid  out  of  her  humble  purse  at 
a  time  —  be  it  remembered  !  —  when  she  had  scarcely 
wherewithal  to  purchase  the  bare  necessaries  of  Ufe,  and 
when  she  could  have  no  reason  to  expect  that  I  should 
ever  be  able  to  reimburse  her. 

Thomas  de  Quincey 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Kentucky  o     <:>     ^^^.^     -cy 

nPHE  colonel  gathered  the  bridle-reins  from  the  neck  of 
"*•  his  old  horse  and  turned  his  head  homeward.  As  he 
rode  slowly  on,  every  spot  gave  up  its  memories.  He 
dismounted  when  he  came  to  the  cattle  and  walked 
among  them,  stroking  their  soft  flanks  and  feeling  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand  the  rasp  of  their  salt-loving  tongues; 
on  his  sideboard  at  home  was  many  a  silver  cup  which 
told  of  premiums  on  cattle  at  the  great  fairs.  It  was  in 
this  very  pond  that  as  a  boy  he  had  learned  to  swim  on  a 
cherry  rail.  When  he  entered  the  woods,  the  sight  of 
the  walnut-trees  and  the  hickory-nut  trees,  loaded  on  the 
topmost  branches,  gave  him  a  sudden  pang. 

Beyond  the  woods  he  came  upon  the  garden,  which  he 
had  kept  as  his  mother  had  left  it  —  an  old-fashioned 
garden  with  an  arbor  in  the  centre,  covered  with  Isabella 
grape-vines  on  one  side  and  Catawba  on  the  other ;  with 
walks  branching  thence  in  four  directions,  and  along  them 
beds  of  jump-up- johnnies,  sweet-williams,  daffodils,  sweet 
peas,  larkspur,  and  thyme,  flags  and  the  sensitive-plant 
celestial   and   maiden's-blush   roses.    He   stopped   and 

121 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

looked  over  the  fence  at  the  very  spot  where  he  had 
found  his  mother  on  the  day  when  the  news  of  the  battle 
came. 

He  dismounted  at  the  stiles  and  handed  the  reins  to  a 
gray-haired  negro,  who  had  hobbled  up  to  receive  them 
with  a  smile  and  a  gesture  of  the  deepest  respect. 

"Peter,"  he  said  very  simply,  "I  am  going  to  sell  the 
Place  and  move  to  town.    I  can't  Kve  here  any  longer." 

With  these  words  he  passed  through  the  yard-gate, 
walked  slowly  u'p  the  broad  pavement,  and  entered  the 
house. 

On  the  disappearing  form  of  the  colonel  was  fixed  an 
ancient  pair  of  eyes  that  looked  out  at  him  from  behind 
a  still  more  ancient  pair  of  silver-rimmed  spectacles  with 
an  expression  of  indescribable  solicitude  and  love. 

These  eyes  were  set  in  the  head  of  an  old  gentleman  — 
for  such  he  was  —  named  Peter  Cotton,  who  was  the  only 
one  of  the  colonel's  former  slaves  that  had  remained 
inseparable  from  his  person  and  his  altered  fortunes.  In 
early  manhood  Peter  had  been  a  wood-chopper ;  but  he 
had  one  day  had  his  leg  broken  by  the  limb  of  a  falling 
tree,  and  afterwards,  out  of  consideration  for  his  limp,  had 
been  made  supervisor  of  the  woodpile,  gardener,  and 
a  sort  of  nondescript  servitor  of  his  master's  luxu- 
rious needs. 

The  colonel  had  bought  a  home  on  the  edge  of  the  town, 
with  some  ten  acres  of  beautiful  ground  surrounding. 
A  high  osage-orange  hedge  shut  it  in,  and  forest  trees, 
chiefly  maples  and  elms,  gave  to  the  lawn  and  house 
abundant  shade.  Wild  grape-vines,  the  Virginia 
creeper,  and  the  climbing  oak  swung  their  long  festoons 

122 


Friends  in  Need 

from  summit  to  summit,  while  honeysuckles,  clematis, 
and  the  Mexican  vine  clambered  over  arbors  and  trel- 
lises, or  along  the  chipped  stone  of  the  low,  old-fashioned 
house.  Just  outside  the  door  of  the  colonel's  bedroom 
slept  an  ancient,  broken  sun-dial. 

The  place  seemed  always  in  half-shadow,  with  hedge- 
rows of  box,  clumps  of  dark  holly,  darker  firs  half  a  cen- 
tury old,  and  aged  crape-like  cedars. 

It  was  in  the  seclusion  of  this  retreat,  which  looked 
almost  like  a  wild  bit  of  country  set  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
town,  that  the  colonel  and  Peter  spent  more  of  their  time 
as  they  fell  farther  in  the  rear  of  onward  events.  There 
were  no  such  flower  gardens  in  the  city,  and  pretty  much 
the  whole  town  went  thither  for  its  flowers,  preferring 
them  to  those  that  were  to  be  had  for  a  price  at  the 
nurseries. 

There  was,  i)erhaps,  a  suggestion  of  pathetic  humor  in 
the  fact  that  it  should  have  called  on  the  colonel  and 
Peter,  themselves  so  nearly  defunct,  to  furnish  the 
flowers  for  so  many  funerals;  but,  it  is  certain,  almost 
weekly  the  two  old  gentlemen  received  this  chastening 
admonition  of  their  aU-but-spent  mortality.  The  colonel 
cultivated  the  rarest  fruits  also,  and  had  under  glass 
varieties  that  were  not  friendly  to  the  climate ;  so  that  by 
means  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  there  was  estabhshed  a 
pleasant  social  bond  with  many  who  otherwise  would 
never  have  sought  them  out. 

But  others  came  for  better  reasons.  To  a  few  deep- 
seeing  eyes  the  colonel  and  Peter  were  ruined  landmarks 
on  a  fading  historic  landscape,  and  their  devoted  friend- 
ship was  the  last  steady  burning-down  of  that  pure  flame 
of  love  which  can  never  again  shine  out  in  the  future  of  the 
123 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

two  races.  Hence  a  softened  charm  invested  the  drowsy 
quietude  of  that  shadowy  paradise  in  which  the  old  mas- 
ter without  a  slave  and  the  old  slave  without  a  master  still 
kept  up  a  brave  pantomime  of  their  obsolete  relations. 
No  one  ever  saw  in  their  intercourse  aught  but  the  finest 
courtesy,  the  most  delicate  consideration.  The  very 
tones  of  their  voices  in  addressing  each  other  were  as  good 
as  sermons  on  gentleness,  their  antiquated  playfulness  as 
melodious  as  the  babble  of  distant  water.  To  be  near 
them  was  to  be  exorcised  of  evil  passions. 

The  sun  of  their  day  had  indeed  long  since  set;  but 
like  twin  clouds  Ufted  high  and  motionless  into  some  far 
quarter  of  the  gray  twilight  skies,  they  were  still  radiant 
with  the  glow  of  the  invisible  orb. 

Henceforth  the  colonel's  appearances  in  public  were 
few  and  regular.  He  went  to  church  on  Sundays,  where 
he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  choir  in  the  centre  of  the  building, 
and  sang  an  ancient  bass  of  his  own  improvisation  to 
the  older  hymns,  and  glanced  furtively  around  to  see 
whether  any  one  noticed  that  he  could  not  sing  the  new 
ones.  At  the  Sunday-school  picnics  the  committee  of 
arrangements  allowed  him  to  carve  the  mutton,  and 
after  dinner  to  swing  the  smallest  children  gently  beneath 
the  trees.  He  was  seen  on  Commencement  Day  at 
Morrison  Chapel,  where  he  always  gave  his  bouquet  to 
the  valedictorian.  It  was  the  speech  of  that  young  gen- 
tleman that  always  touched  him,  consisting  as  it  did  of 
farewells. 

In  the  autumn  he  might  sometimes  be  noticed  sitting 

high  up  in  the  amphitheatre  at  the  fair,  a  little  blue 

around  the  nose,  and  looking  absently  over  into  the  ring 

where  the  judges  were  grouped  around  the  music-stand. 

124 


Friends  in  Need 

Once  he  had  strutted  around  as  a  judge  himself,  with  a 
blue  ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  while  the  band  played 
"Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt"  and  "Gentle  Annie."  The 
ring  seemed  full  of  young  men  now,  and  no  one  even 
thought  of  offering  him  the  privileges  of  the  grounds.  In 
his  day  the  great  feature  of  the  exhibition  had  been  cat- 
tle; now  everything  was  turned  into  a  horse-show.  He 
was  always  glad  to  get  home  again  to  Peter,  his  true  yoke- 
fellow. For  just  as  two  old  oxen  —  one  white  and  one 
black  —  that  have  long  toiled  under  the  same  yoke  will, 
when  turned  out  to  graze  at  last  in  the  widest  pasture, 
come  and  put  themselves  horn  to  horn  and  flank  to  flank, 
so  the  colonel  and  Peter  were  never  so  happy  as  when 
ruminating  side  by  side. 

James  Lane  Allen 

Martha         '"^i>'      "^^     '^^     ""^^     "^^     "^     "^ 

V/TISS  MATTY  was  ruined. 

■'■'-'■  She  tried  to  speak  quietly  to  me;   but  when  she 

came  to  the  actual  fact  that  she  would  have  about  five 

shillings  a  week  to  Uve  upon,  she  could  not  restrain  a  few 

tears. 

"I  am  not  crying  for  myself,  dear,"  said  she,  wiping 
them  away;  "I  beheve  I  am  crying  for  the  very  silly 
thought  of  how  my  mother  would  grieve  if  she  could  know ; 
she  always  cared  for  us  so  much  more  than  for  herself. 
But  many  a  p>oor  person  has  less,  and  I  am  not  very 
extravagant,  and,  thank  God,  when  the  neck  of  mutton, 
and  Martha's  wages,  and  the  rent  are  paid,  I  have  not  a 
farthing  owing.  Poor  Martha !  I  think  she'll  be  sorry 
to  leave  me." 

125 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Miss  Matty  smiled  at  me  through  her  tears,  and  she 
would  fain  have  had  me  see  only  the  smile,  not  the  tears. 
.  .  .  Martha  opened  the  door  to  me,  her  face  swollen 
with  crying.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me  she  burst  out  afresh, 
and  taking  hold  of  m.y  arm  she  pulled  me  in,  and  banged 
the  door  to,  in  order  to  ask  me  if  indeed  it  was  all  true 
that  Miss  Matty  had  been  saying. 

"I'll  never  leave  her!  No;  I  won't.  I  telled  her  so, 
and  said  I  could  not  think  how  she  could  find  in  her  heart 
to  give  me  warning.  I  could  not  have  had  the  face  to  do 
it,  if  I'd  been  her.  I  might  ha'  been  just  as  good  for 
nothing  as  Mrs.  Fitz-Adam's  Rosy,  who  struck  for  wages 
after  living  seven  years  and  a  half  in  one  place.  I  said 
I  was  not  one  to  go  and  serve  Mammon  at  that  rate; 
that  I  knew  when  I'd  got  a  good  missus,  if  she  didn't 
know  when  she'd  got  a  good  servant  — " 

"But,  Martha,"  said  I,  cutting  in  while  she  wiped  her 
eyes. 

"Don't  'but,  Martha'  me,"  she  replied  to  my  depre- 
catory tone. 

"Listen  to  reason  — " 

"I'll  not  Usten  to  reason,"  she  said,  now  in  fuU  pos- 
session of  her  voice,  which  had  been  rather  choked  with 
sobbing.  "Reason  always  means  what  some  one  else 
has  got  to  say.  Now  I  think  what  I've  got  to  say  is  good 
enough  reason ;  but  reason  or  not,  I'll  say  it,  and  I'll  stick 
to  it.  I've  money  in  the  Savings  Bank,  and  I've  a  good 
stock  of  clothes,  and  I'm  not  going  to  leave  Miss  Matty. 
No,  not  if  she  gives  me  warning  every  hour  in  the  day  ! " 

She  put  her  arms  akimbo,  as  much  as  to  say  she  defied 
me ;  and,  indeed,  I  could  hardly  tell  how  to  begin  to  re- 
monstrate with  her,  so  much  did  I  feel  that  Miss  Matty, 
126 


Friends  in  Need 

in  her  increasing  infirmity,  needed  the  attendance  of  this 
kind  and  faithful  woman. 

"WeU—"  said  I  at  last. 

"I'm  thankful  you  begin  with  'well!'  If  you'd  ha' 
begun  with  'but,'  as  you  did  afore,  I'd  not  ha'  listened  to 
you.     Now  you  may  go  on." 

"I  know  you  would  be  a  great  loss  to  Miss  Matty, 
Martha—" 

"I  telled  her  so.  A  loss  she'd  never  cease  to  be  sorry 
for,"  broke  in  Martha,  triumphantly. 

"  Still,  she  will  have  so  little  —  so  very  little  —  to  live 
ufKjn,  that  I  don't  see  just  now  how  she  could  find  you 
food  —  she  will  even  be  pressed  for  her  own.  I  tell  you 
this,  Martha,  because  I  feel  you  are  like  a,  friend  to  dear 
Miss  Matty,  but  you  know  she  might  not  like  to  have  it 
spoken  about." 

Apparently  this  was  even  a  blacker  view  of  the  subject 
than  Miss  Matty  had  presented  to  her,  for  Martha  just 
sat  down  on  the  first  chair  that  came  to  hand,  and  cried 
out  loud  (we  had  been  standing  in  the  kitchen). 

At  last  she  put  her  apron  down,  and  looking  me  ear- 
nestly in  the  face,  asked,  "Was  that  the  reason  Miss 
Matty  wouldn't  order  a  pudding  to-day?  She  said  she 
had  no  great  fancy  for  sweet  things,  and  you  and  she 
would  just  have  a  mutton-chop.  But  I'll  be  up  to  her. 
Never  you  tell,  but  I'll  make  her  a  pudding,  and  a  pud- 
ding she'll  like,  too,  and  I'll  pay  for  it  myself ;  so  mind 
you  see  she  eats  it.  Many  a  one  has  been  comforted  in 
their  sorrow  by  seeing  a  good  dish  come  up)on  the  table." 

I  was  rather  glad  that  Martha's  energy  had  taken  the 
immediate  and  practical  direction  of  pudding-making, 
for  it  staved  off  the  quarrelsome  discussion  as  to  whether 
127 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

she  should  or  should  not  leave  Miss  Matty's  service. 
She  began  to  tie  on  a  clean  apron,  and  otherwise  prepare 
herself  for  going  to  the  shop  for  the  butter,  eggs,  and 
what  else  she  might  require.  She  wovild  not  use  a  scrap 
of  the  articles  already  in  the  house  for  her  cookery,  but 
went  to  an  old  tea-pot  in  which  her  private  store  of  money 
was  deposited,  and  took  out  what  she  wanted. 

I  found  Miss  Matty  very  quiet,  and  not  a  httle  sad ; 
but  by  and  by  she  tried  to  smile  for  my  sake.  It  was 
settled  that  I  was  to  write  to  my  father,  and  ask  him  to 
come  over  and  hold  a  consultation,  and  as  soon  as  this 
letter  was  despatched,  we  began  to  talk  over  future  plans. 
Miss  Matty's  idea  was  to  take  a  single  room,  and  retain  as 
much  of  her  furniture  as  would  be  necessary  to  fit  up 
this,  and  sell  the  rest,  and  there  to  quietly  exist  upon 
what  would  remain  after  paying  the  rent.  For  my  part, 
I  was  more  ambitious  and  less  contented.  I  thought  of  all 
the  things  by  which  a  woman  past  middle  age,  and  with 
the  education  common  to  ladies  fifty  years  ago,  could 
earn  or  add  to  a  living  without  materially  losing  caste; 
but  at  length  I  put  even  this  last  clause  on  one  side,  and 
wondered  what  in  the  world  Miss  Matty  could  do. 

Teaching  was,  of  course,  the  first  thing  that  suggested 
itself.  If  Miss  Matty  could  teach  children  anything,  it 
would  throw  her  among  the  Uttle  elves  in  whom  her  soul 
delighted.  I  ran  over  her  accompUshments.  Once  upon 
a  time  I  had  heard  her  say  she  could  play  "Ah!  vous 
dirai-je,  maman  ? "  on  the  piano,  but  that  was  long,  long 
ago ;  that  faint  shadow  of  musical  acquirement  had  died 
out  years  before.  She  had  also  once  been  able  to  trace 
out  patterns  very  nicely  for  musUn  embroidery,  by  dint 
of  placing  a  piece  of  silver-paper  over  the  design  to  be 
128 


Friends  in  Need 

copied,  and  holding  both  against  the  window-pane  while 
she  marked  the  scallop  and  eyelet-holes.  But  that  was 
her  nearest  approach  to  the  accompUshment  of  drawing, 
and  I  did  not  think  it  would  go  very  far.  Then  again,  as 
to  the  branches  of  a  solid  English  education  —  fancy 
work  and  the  use  of  the  globes  —  such  as  the  mistress  of 
the  Ladies'  Seminary,  to  which  all  the  tradespeople  in 
Cranford  sent  their  daughters,  professed  to  teach.  Miss 
Matty's  eyes  were  failing  her,  and  I  doubted  if  she  could 
discover  the  number  of  threads  in  a  worsted-work  pat- 
tern, or  rightly  appreciate  the  different  shades  required 
for  Queen  Adelaide's  face  in  the  loyal  wool-work  now 
fashionable  in  Cranford.  As  for  the  use  of  the  globes,  I 
had  never  been  able  to  find  it  out  myself,  so  perhaps  I 
was  not  a  good  judge  of  Miss  Matty's  capability  of  in- 
structing in  this  branch  of  education;  but  it  struck  me 
that  equators  and  tropics,  and  such  mystical  circles,  were 
very  imaginary  Unes  indeed  to  her,  and  that  she  looked 
upon  the  signs  of  the  2^diac  as  so  many  remnants  of  the 
Black  Art.  .  .  . 

No !  there  was  nothing  she  could  teach  to  the  rising 
generation  of  Cranford,  unless  they  had  been  quick 
learners  and  ready  imitators  of  her  patience,  her  humility, 
her  sweetness,  her  quiet  contentment  with  all  that  she 
could  not  do.  I  pondered  and  pondered  until  dinner  was 
announced  by  Martha,  with  a  face  all  blubbered  and 
swollen  with  crying. 

Miss  Matty  had  a  few  little  peculiarities  which  Martha 
was  apt  to  regard  as  whims  below  her  attention,  and  ap- 
peared to  consider  as  childish  fancies  of  which  an  old  lady 
of  fifty-eight  should  try  and  cure  herself.  But  to-day 
everything  was  attended  to  with  the  most  careful  regard. 

K  129 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

The  bread  was  cut  to  the  imaginary  pattern  of  excellence 
that  existed  in  Miss  Matty's  mind,  as  being  the  way 
which  her  mother  had  preferred;  the  curtain  was  drawn 
so  as  to  exclude  the  dead  brick-wall  of  a  neighbor's 
stables,  and  yet  left  so  as  to  show  every  tender  leaf  of  the 
poplar  which  was  bursting  into  spring  beauty.  Martha's 
tone  to  Miss  Matty  was  just  such  as  that  good,  rough- 
spoken  servant  usually  kept  sacred  for  little  children, 
and  which  I  had  never  heard  her  use  to  any  grown-up 
person. 

I  had  forgotten  to  tell  Miss  Matty  about  the  pudding, 
and  I  was  afraid  she  might  not  do  justice  to  it,  for  she  had 
evidently  very  Uttle  appetite  this  day;  so  I  seized  the 
opportunity  of  letting  her  into  the  secret  while  Martha 
took  away  the  meat.  Miss  Matty's  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  she  could  not  speak,  either  to  express  surprise  or 
delight,  when  Martha  returned  bearing  it  aloft,  made  in 
the  most  wonderful  representation  of  a  Uon  couchant 
that  ever  was  moulded.  Martha's  face  gleamed  with 
triumph  as  she  set  it  down  before  Miss  Matty  with  an 
exultant  "There!"  Miss  Matty  wanted  to  speak  her 
thanks,  but  could  not;  so  she  took  Martha's  hand  and 
shook  it  warmly,  which  set  Martha  off  crying,  and  I 
myself  could  hardly  keep  up  the  necessary  composure. 
Martha  burst  out  of  the  room,  and  Miss  Matty  had  to 
clear  her  voice  once  or  twice  before  she  could  speak.  At 
last  she  said,  "I  should  like  to  keep  this  pudding  under  a 
glass  shade,  my  dear  ! "  and  the  notion  of  the  lion  couch- 
ant, with  his  currant  eyes,  being  hoisted  up  to  the  place 
of  honor  on  a  mantelpiece,  tickled  up  my  hysterical 
fancy,  and  I  began  to  laugh,  which  rather  surprised  Miss 
Matty. 

130 


Friends  in  Need 

"I  am  sure,  dear,  I  have  seen  uglier  things  under  a 
glass  shade  before  now,"  said  she. 

So  had  I,  many  a  time  and  oft,  and  I  accordingly  com- 
posed my  countenance  (and  now  I  could  hardly  keep 
from  crying),  and  we  both  fell  to  upon  the  pudding, 
which  was  indeed  excellent  —  only  every  morsel  seemed 
to  choke  us,  our  hearts  were  so  full. 

Mrs.  Gaskell 


A  Merchant  of  Venice     <;:>    ^^^    <>y     <:>     -cy 

Present :  Bassanio,  Portia,  and  Nerissa. 

[Enter  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and  Salerio,  a  Messenger  from 

Venice.] 

Bass.    Lorenzo  and  Salerio,  welcome  hither ; 
If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have  power  to  bid  you  welcome.     By  your  leave, 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen, 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

Por.     So  do  I,  my  lord : 
They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor.    I  thank  your  honor.     For  my  part,  my  lord, 
My  purpKDse  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 
But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way. 
He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay, 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Saler.     I  did,  my  lord ; 
And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Signor  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.     {Gives  Bassanio  a  letter.) 

Bass.    Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 
I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth. 
131 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Saler.    Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind ; 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind :  his  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate. 

Gra.    Nerissa,  cheer  yon  stranger ;  bid  her  welcome 
Your  hand,  Salerio ;  what's  the  news  from  Venice  ? 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio  ? 
I  know  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success ; 
We  are  the  Jasons,  we  have  won  the  fleece. 

Saler.    I  would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he  hath 
lost. 

For.    There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon  same 
paper. 
That  steals  the  color  from  Bassanio's  cheek: 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse ! 
With  leave,  Bassanio ;  I  am  half  yourself. 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  anything 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.    O  sweet  Portia, 
Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper  !     Gentle  lady. 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins,  I  was  a  gentleman ; 
And  then  I  told  you  true:  and  yet,  dear  lady, 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart.     When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing ;  for  indeed, 
I  have  engaged  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Engaged  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy, 
132 


riends  in 


Need 


To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady ; 
The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend, 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound. 
Issuing  life-blood.    But  is  it  true,  Salciio? 
Have  all  his  ventures  fail'd  ?    What,  not  one  hit  ? 
From  TripoUs,  from  Mexico  and  England, 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India  ? 
And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merchant-marring  rocks  ? 

Saler.    Not  one,  my  lord. 
Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  he  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it.    Never  did  I  know 
A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man, 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man : 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning  and  at  night 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state, 
If  they  deny  him  justice:  twenty  merchants, 
The  Duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 
Of  greatest  port  have  all  persuaded  with  him ; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice  and  his  bond. 

Jcs.     When  I  was  with  him  I  have  heard  him  swear 
To  Tubal  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen. 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him :  and  I  know,  my  lord, 
If  law,  authority  and  power  deny  not 
It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

Pot.    Is  it  your  dear  friend  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 

Bass.    The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 
The  best-condition'd  and  unwearied  spirit 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

In  doing  courtesies,  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honor  more  appears 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy, 

Por.    What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Pass.     For  me  three  thousand  ducats. 

Por.    What,  no  more  ? 
Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault. 
First  go  with  me  to  church  and  call  me  wife, 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.    You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over: 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along. 
My  maid  Nerissa  and  myself  meantime 
Will  hve  as  maids  and  widows.     Come  away  ! 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day: 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer : 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  {Reads.)  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have  all 
miscarried,  my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is  very  low, 
my  bond  to  the  Jew  is  forfeit ;  and  since  in  paying  it,  it 
is  impossible  I  should  live,  all  debts  are  cleared  between 
you  and  I,  if  I  might  but  see  you  at  my  death.  Not- 
withstanding, use  your  pleasure :  if  yoiu*  love  do  not 
persuade  you  to  come,  let  not  my  letter. 

Por.    O  love,  despatch  all  business,  and  be  gone  ! 

William  Shakespeare 


134 


Friends  in  Need 

Sanctuary  in  Alsatia      ^^     -v>     <Sk     <:>      <:>>. 

■p  EGINALD  LOWESTOFFE  was  bustlingly  officious 
-'-^  and  good-natured ;  but,  used  to  live  a  scrambling, 
rakish  course  of  life  himself,  he  had  not  the  least  idea  of 
the  extent  of  Lord  Glenvarloch's  mental  sufferings,  and 
thought  of  his  temporary  concealment  as  if  it  were  merely 
the  trick  of  a  wanton  boy,  who  plays  at  hide-and-seek  with 
his  tutor.  With  the  appearance  of  the  place,  too,  he  was 
familiar;  but  on  his  companion  it  produced  a  deep 
sensation. 

The  ancient  sanctuary  at  Whitefriars  lay  considerably 
lower  than  the  elevated  terraces  and  gardens  of  the 
Temple,  and  was  therefore  generally  involved  in  the 
damps  and  fogs  arising  from  the  Thames.  The  brick 
buildings  by  which  it  was  occupied  crowded  closely  on 
each  other,  for,  in  a  place  so  rarely  privileged,  every  foot 
of  ground  was  valuable ;  but,  erected  in  many  cases  by 
persons  whose  funds  were  inadequate  to  their  specula- 
tions, the  houses  were  generally  insufficient,  and  exhib- 
ited the  lamentable  signs  of  having  become  ruinous  while 
they  were  yet  new.  The  wailing  of  children,  the  scolding 
of  their  mothers,  the  miserable  exhibition  of  ragged 
linens  hung  from  the  windows  to  dry,  spoke  the  wants  and 
distresses  of  the  wretched  inhabitants ;  while  the  sounds 
of  complaint  were  mocked  and  overwhelmed  in  the  riot- 
ous shouts,  oaths,  profane  songs,  and  boisterous  laughter 
that  issued  from  the  alehouses  and  taverns,  which,  as  the 
signs  indicated,  were  equal  in  number  to  all  the  other 
houses;  and,  that  the  full  character  of  the  place  might 
be  evident,  several  faded,  tinselled,  and  painted  females 
looked  boldly  at  the  strangers  from  their  open  lattices, 

I3S 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

or  more  modestly  seemed  busied  with  the  cracked  flower- 
pots, filled  with  mignonette  and  rosemary,  which  were 
disposed  in  front  of  the  windows,  to  the  great  risk  of  the 
passengers.  ...  "  And  now,  let  me  ask  your  lordship 
what  name  you  will  assume,  for  we  are  near  the  ducal 
palace  of  Duke  Hildebrod." 

"I  will  be  called  Grahame,"  said  Nigel;  "it  was  my 
mother's  name." 

"Grime,"  repeated  the  Templar,  "wiU  suit  Alsatia  well 
enough  —  both  a  grim  and  grimy  place  of  refuge." 

"I  said  Grahame,  sir,  not  Grime,"  said  Nigel,  some- 
thing shortly,  and  laying  an  emphasis  on  the  vowel;  for 
few  Scotsmen  understand  raillery  upon  the  subject  of 
their  names. 

"I  beg  pardon,  my  lord,"  answered  the  undisconcerted 
punster;  "but  Graam  will  suit  the  circumstance,  too: 
it  signifies  'tribulation'  in  the  High  Dutch,  and  your 
lordship  must  be  considered  as  a  man  under  trouble."  .  .  . 

As  they  spoke,  they  entered  the  dilapidated  tavern, 
which  was,  nevertheless,  more  ample  in  dimensions,  and 
less  ruinous,  than  many  houses  in  the  same  evil  neighbor- 
hood. Two  or  three  haggard,  ragged  drawers  ran  to  and 
fro,  whose  looks,  like  those  of  owls,  seemed  only  adapted 
for  midnight,  when  other  creatures  sleep,  and  who  by  day 
seemed  bleared,  stupid,  and  only  half  awake.  Guided 
by  one  of  these  blinking  Ganymedes,  they  entered  a  room, 
where  the  feeble  rays  of  the  sun  were  almost  wholly 
eclipsed  by  volumes  of  tobacco-smoke,  rolled  from  the 
tubes  of  the  company,  while  out  of  the  cloudy  sanctuary 
arose  the  old  chant  of  — 

"Old  Sir  Simon  the  King, 
And  old  Sir  Simon  the  King, 
136 


Friends  in  Need 

With  his  mabnsey  nose, 
And  his  ale-dropped  hose. 
And  sing  hey  ding-ading-ding." 

Duke  Hildebrod,  who  himself  condescended  to  chant 
this  ditty  to  his  loving  subjects,  was  a  monstrously  fat 
old  man,  with  only  one  eye,  and  a  nose  which  bore  evi- 
dence to  the  frequency,  strength,  and  depth  of  his  pota- 
tions. He  wore  a  murrey-colored  plush  jerkin,  stained 
with  the  overflowings  of  the  tankard,  and  much  the 
worse  for  wear,  and  unbuttoned  at  bottom  for  the  ease 
of  his  enormous  paunch.  Behind  him  lay  a  favorite  bull- 
dog whose  round  head  and  single  black  glancing  eye,  as 
well  as  the  creature's  great  corpulence,  gave  it  a  burlesque 
resemblance  to  its  master.  .  .  . 

When  Duke  Hildebrod  had  ended  his  song,  he  informed 
his  peers  that  a  worthy  officer  of  the  Temple  attended 
them,  and  commanded  the  captain  and  parson  to  abandon 
their  easy-chairs  in  behalf  of  the  two  strangers,  whom  he 
placed  on  his  right  and  left  hand.  The  worthy  represent- 
atives of  the  army  and  the  church  of  Alsatia  went  to 
place  themselves  on  a  crazy  form  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  which,  ill  calculated  to  sustain  men  of  such  weight, 
gave  way  under  them,  and  the  man  of  the  sword  and  man 
of  the  gown  were  rolled  over  each  other  on  the  floor, 
amidst  the  exulting  shouts  of  the  company.  They  arose 
in  wrath,  contending  which  should  vent  his  displeasure 
in  the  loudest  and  deepest  oaths,  a  strife  in  which  the 
parson's  superior  acquaintance  with  theology  enabled  him 
greatly  to  excel  the  captain,  and  were  at  length  with  diffi- 
culty tranquillized  by  the  arrival  of  the  alarmed  waiters 
with  more  stable  chairs,  and  by  a  long  draught  of  the  cool- 
ing tankard.   When  this  commotion  was  appeased  and  the 

137 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

strangers  courteously  accommodated  with  flagons,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  others  present,  the  duke  drank  prosper- 
ity to  the  Temple  in  the  most  gracious  manner,  together 
with  a  cup  of  welcome  to  Master  Reginald  Lowestoffe ; 
and,  this  courtesy  having  been  thankfully  accepted,  the 
party  honored  prayed  permission  to  call  for  a  gallon  of 
Rhenish,  over  which  he  proposed  to  open  his  business. 

The  mention  of  a  liquor  so  superior  to  their  usual  po- 
tations had  an  instant  and  most  favorable  effect  upon 
the  little  senate ;  and  its  immediate  appearance  might  be 
said  to  secure  a  favorable  reception  of  Master  Lowe- 
stoflfe's  proposition,  which,  after  a  round  or  two  had 
circulated,  he  explained  to  be  the  admission  of  his  friend 
Master  Nigel  Grahame,  to  the  benefit  of  the  sanctuary 
and  other  immunities  of  Alsatia,  in  the  character  of  a 
grand  compounder;  for  so  were  those  termed  who  paid 
a  double  fee  at  their  matriculation,  in  order  to  avoid  lay- 
ing before  the  senate  the  peculiar  circvunstances  which 
compelled  them  to  take  refuge  there. 

The  worthy  duke  heard  the  proposition  vnih  glee 
which  glittered  in  his  single  eye;  and  no  wonder,  as  it 
was  a  rare  occurrence,  and  of  peculiar  advantage  to  his 
private  revenue.  Accordingly,  he  commanded  his  ducal 
register  to  be  brought  him  —  a  huge  book,  secured  with 
brass  clasps  like  a  merchant's  ledger,  and  whose  leaves, 
stained  with  wine  and  slabbered  with  tobacco  juice,  bore 
the  names  probably  of  as  many  rogues  as  are  to  be  found 
in  the  "  Calendar  of  Newgate." 

Nigel  was  then  directed  to  lay  down  two  nobles  as  his 
ransom,  and  to  claim  privilege  by  reciting  the  following 
doggerel  verses,  which  were  dictated  to  him  by  the 
duke: — 

138 


Friends  in  Need 

"Your  suppliant,  by  name 
Nigel  Grahame, 
In  fear  of  mishap 
From  a  shoulder-tap. 
And  dreading  a  claw 
From  the  talons  of  law, 

That  are  sharper  than  briers. 
His  freedom  to  sue. 
And  rescue  by  you. 
Through  weapon  and  wit, 
From  warrant  and  writ. 
From  bailiflF's  hand. 
From  tipstaff's  wand. 

Is  come  hither  to  Whitefriars." 

As  Duke  Hildebrod  with  a  tremulous  hand  began  to 
make  the  entry,  and  had  already,  with  superfluous  gen- 
erosity, spelled  Nigel  with  two  g's  instead  of  one,  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  parson.  This  reverend  gentleman 
had  been  whispering  for  a  minute  or  two,  not  with  the 
captain,  but  with  that  other  individual  who  dwelt  im- 
p)erfectly,  as  we  have  already  mentioned,  in  Nigel's  mem- 
ory, and  being,  perhaps,  still  something  malcontent  on 
account  of  the  late  accident,  he  now  requested  to  be  heard. 

"The  person,"  he  said,  "who  hath  now  had  the  as- 
surance to  propose  himself  as  a  candidate  for  the  privi- 
leges and  immunities  of  this  honorable  society  is,  in 
plain  terms,  a  beggarly  Scot,  and  we  have  enough  of  these 
locusts  in  London  already;  if  we  admit  such  palmer- 
worms  and  caterpillars  to  the  sanctuary,  we  shall  soon 
have  the  whole  nation." 

"We  are  not  entitled  to  inquire,"  said  Duke  Hildebrod, 
"whether  he  be  Scot,  or  French,  or  English:  seeing  he 
has  honorably  laid  down  his  garnish,  he  is  entitled  to 
our  protection."  Sir  Walter  Scott 

139 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


The  War  Correspondents     ^c>      'Oy      ^'o      'Oy 

'  I  "HE  Nilghai,  fat,  burly,  and  aggressive,  was  in  Tor- 
•*•  penhow's  rooms.  Behind  him  sat  the  Keneu,  the 
Great  War  Eagle,  and  between  them  lay  a  large  map 
embellished  with  black  and  white-headed  pins. 

"  I  was  wrong  about  the  Balkans,"  said  the  Nilghai. 
"  But  I'm  not  wrong  about  this  business.  The  whole  of 
our  work  in  the  Southern  Soudan  must  be  done  over 
again.  The  public  doesn't  care,  of  course,  but  the 
government  does,  and  they  are  making  their  arrange- 
ments quietly.     You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"I  remember  how  the  people  cursed  us  when  our 
troops  withdrew  from  Omdurman.  It  was  bound  to 
crop  up  sooner  or  later.  But  I  can't  go,"  said  Torpen- 
how.  He  pointed  through  the  open  door;  it  was  a  hot 
night.     "  Can  you  blame  me  ?  " 

The  Keneu  purred  above  his  pipe  like  a  large  and  very 
happy  cat  — 

"  Don't  blame  you  in  the  least.  It's  uncommonly  good 
of  you,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  but  every  man  —  even  you, 
Torp  —  must  consider  his  work.  I  know  it  sounds 
brutal,  but  Dick's  out  of  the  race,  —  down,  —  gastados, 
expended,  finished,  done  for.  He  has  a  little  money  of 
his  own.  He  won't  starve,  and  you  can't  pull  out  of 
your  slide  for  his  sake.     Think  of  your  own  reputation." 

"  Dick's  was  five  times  bigger  than  mine  and  yours 
put  together." 

"  That  was  because  he  signed  his  name  to  everything 
he  did.  It's  all  ended  now.  You  must  hold  yourself  in 
readiness  to  move  out.  You  can  command  your  own 
Z40 


Friends  in  Need 

prices,  and  you  do  even  better  work  than  any  three 
of  us." 

"  Don't  tell  me  how  tempting  it  is.  I'll  stay  here  to 
look  after  Dick  for  a  while.  He's  as  cheerful  as  a  bear 
with  a  sore  head,  but  I  think  he  likes  to  have  me  near 
him." 

The  Nilghai  said  something  uncomplimentary  about 
soft-headed  fools  who  throw  away  their  careers  for  other 
fools.  Torpenhow  flushed  angrily.  The  constant  strain 
of  attendance  on  Dick  had  worn  his  nerves  thin.  .  .  . 

Dick  had  long  since  ceased  to  think  about  the  work 
he  had  done  in  the  old  days,  and  the  desire  to  do  more 
work  had  departed  from  him.  He  was  exceedingly 
sorry  for  himself,  and  the  completeness  of  his  tender 
grief  soothed  him.  But  his  soul  and  his  body  cried  for 
Maisie,  —  Maisie  who  would  understand.  His  mind 
pointed  out  that  Maisie,  having  her  own  work  to  do, 
would  not  care.  His  experience  had  taught  him  that 
when  money  was  exhausted,  women  went  away,  and 
that  when  a  man  was  knocked  out  of  the  race,  the  others 
trampled  on  him.  "  Then  at  the  least,"  said  Dick,  in  re- 
ply, "she  could  use  me  as  I  used  Binat,  —  for  some  sort 
of  a  study.  I  wouldn't  ask  more  than  to  be  near  her 
again,  even  though  I  knew  that  another  man  was  mak- 
ing love  to  her.     Ugh!  what  a  dog  I  am! " 

A  voice  on  the  staircase  began  to  sing  joyfully. 

"  When  we  go  —  go  —  go  away  from  here, 

Our  creditors  will  weep  and  they  will  wail, 

Our  absence  much  regretting  when  they  find  that  we've  been  getting 

Out  of  England  by  next  Tuesday's  Indian  mail." 

Following  the  trampling  of  feet,  slamming  of  Torpen- 
how's  door,  and  the  sound  of  voices  in  strenuous  debate, 
141 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

some  one  squeaked,  "  And  see,  you  good  fellows,  I  have 
found  a  new  water-bottle,  —  firs'-class  patent  —  oh,  how 
you  say  ?     Open  himself  inside  out." 

Dick  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  knew  the  voice  well. 
"That's  Cassavetti,  come  back  from  the  Continent. 
Now  I  know  why  Torp  went  away.  There's  a  row 
somewhere,  and  —  I'm  out  of  it!  " 

The  Nilghai  commanded  silence  in  vain.  "  That's  for 
my  sake,"  Dick  said  bitterly.  "  The  birds  are  getting 
ready  to  fly,  and  they  wouldn't  tell  me.  I  can  hear 
Morten-Sutherland  and  Mackaye.  Half  the  War  Cor- 
respondents in  London  are  there  ;  —  and  I'm  out  of  it." 

He  stumbled  across  the  landing  and  plunged  into 
Torpenhow's  room.  He  could  feel  that  it  was  full  of 
men.  "Where's  the  trouble?"  said  he.  "In  the  Bal- 
kans at  last  ?    Why  didn't  some  one  tell  me  ?  " 

"We  thought  you  wouldn't  be  interested,"  said  the 
Nilghai,  shamefacedly.     "It's  in  the  Soudan,  as  usual." 

"You  lucky  dogs!  Let  me  sit  here  while  you  talk. 
I  shan't  be  a  skeleton  at  the  feast.  —  Cassavetti,  where 
are  you  ?     Your  English  is  as  bad  as  ever." 

Dick  was  led  into  a  chair.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  the 
maps,  and  the  talk  swept  forward,  carrying  him  with  it. 
Everybody  spoke  at  once,  discussing  press  censorships, 
railway  routes,  transport,  water-supply,  the  capacities 
of  generals,  —  these  in  language  that  would  have  horri- 
fied a  trusting  public,  —  ranting,  asserting,  denouncing, 
and  laughing  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  There  was  the 
glorious  certainty  of  war  in  the  Soudan  at  any  moment. 
The  Nilghai  said  so,  and  it  was  well  to  be  in  readiness. 
The  Keneu  had  telegraphed  to  Cairo  for  horses ;  Cassa- 
vetti had  stolen  a  perfectly  inaccurate  list  of  troops  that 
142 


Friends  in  Need 

would  be  ordered  forward,  and  was  reading  it  out  amid 
profane  interruptions,  and  the  Keneu  introduced  to  Dick 
some  man  unknown  who  would  be  employed  as  war  artist 
by  the  Central  Southern  Syndicate.  "It's  his  first 
outing,"  said  the  Keneu.  "  Give  him  some  tips  —  about 
riding  camels." 

"Oh,  those  camels!"  groaned  Cassavetti.  "I  shall 
learn  to  ride  him  again,  and  now  I  am  so  much  all  soft ! 
Listen,  you  good  fellows.  I  know  your  miUtary  arrange- 
ment very  well.  There  will  go  the  Royal  Argalshire 
Sutherlanders.    So  it  was  read  to  me  upon  best  authority." 

A  roar  of  laughter  interrupted  him. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  Nilghai.  "The  lists  aren't  even 
made  out  in  the  War  Office." 

Then  the  outcries  redoubled,  and  grew  mixed,  thus: 
"  How  many  Egyptian  troops  will  they  use  ?  —  God  help 
the  Fellaheen  !  —  There's  a  railway  in  Plumstead  marshes 
doing  duty  as  a  fives-court.  —  We  shall  have  the  Suakin- 
Berber  line  built  at  last.  —  Canadian  voyageurs  are  too 
careful.  Give  me  a  half-drunk  Krooman  in  a  whale- 
boat.  —  Who  commands  the  Desert  column  ?  —  No, 
they  never  blew  up  the  big  rock  in  the  Ghineh  bend. 
We  shall  have  to  be  hauled  up,  as  usual.  —  Somebody 
tell  me  if  there's  an  Indian  contingent,  or  I'll  break 
everybody's  head.  —  Don't  tear  the  map  in  two.  —  It's  a 
war  of  occupation,  I  tell  you,  to  connect  with  the  African 
companies  in  the  South. — There's  Guinea- worm  in 
most  of  the  wells  on  that  route."  The  Nilghai,  despair- 
ing of  peace,  bellowed  like  a  fog-horn  and  beat  upon  the 
table  with  both  hands. 

"But  what  becomes  of  Torpenhow?"  said  Dick,  in  the 
silence  that  followed. 

143 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

"Torp's  in  abeyance  just  now.  He's  off  love-making 
somewhere,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  He  said  he  was  going  to  stay  at  home,"  said  the  Keneu. 

"Is  he?"  said  Dick  with  an  oath.  "He  won't.  I'm 
not  much  good  now,  but  if  you  and  the  Nilghai  hold  him 
down,  I'll  engage  to  trample  on  him  till  he  sees  reason. 
He  stay  behind,  indeed !  He's  the  best  of  you  all. 
There'll  be  some  tough  work  by  Omdurman.  We  shall 
come  there  to  stay,  this  time.  But  I  forgot.  I  wish  I 
were  going  with  you." 

"So  do  we  all,  Dickie,"  said  the  Keneu. 

"And  I  most  of  all,"  said  the  new  artist  of  the  Central 
Southern  Syndicate.     "Could  you  tell  me  — " 

"I'll  give  you  one  piece  of  advice,"  Dick  answered, 
moving  towards  the  door.  "If  you  happen  to  be  cut 
over  the  head  in  a  scrimmage,  don't  guard.  Tell  the 
man  to  go  on  cutting.  You'll  find  it  cheapest  in  the  end. 
Thanks  for  letting  me  look  in." 

"There's  grit  in  Dick,"  said  the  Nilghai,  an  hour  later, 
when  the  room  was  emptied  of  all  save  the  Keneu. 

"It  was  the  sacred  call  of  the  war- trumpet.  Did  you 
notice  how  he  answered  to  it  ?  Poor  fellow  !  Let's  look 
at  him,"  said  the  Keneu. 

The  excitement  of  the  talk  had  died  away.  Dick  was 
sitting  by  the  studio  table,  with  his  head  on  his  arms, 
when  the  men  came  in.     He  did  not  change  his  position. 

"It  hurts,"  he  moaned.  "God  forgive  me,  but  it 
hurts  cruelly;  and  yet,  y'know  the  world  has  a  knack  of 
spinning  round  all  by  itself.  Shall  I  see  Torp  before 
he  goes?" 

"Oh,  yes.    You'll  see  him,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

Riidyard  Kipling 
144 


VI 

BROTHERS   IN  ARMS 


145 


BROTHERS  IN   ARMS 

Castor  and  Polydeukes 

Damon  and  Pythias 

The  Covenant  of  David  and  Jonathan 

Ossian's  Song  of  Sorrow 

A  Reconciliation 

As  Toilsome  I  Wandered 

Poets  as  Friends 

Song  of  a  Fellow- Worker 

D'Artagnan  joins  the  Musketeers 

Amis  and  Amile 


/. 


./^ 


i: 


Castor  and  Polydeukes  (Pollux)     ^^i.-      ^c^^      ^^ 

OINCE  Castor  and  his  brother  Polydeukes  came  long 
*^  ago  as  guests  to  the  house  of  Pamphaes,  no  marvel 
is  it  that  Pamphaes's  sons  are  mighty  athletes  born ;  for 
these  two,  guardian-gods  of  spacious  Sparta,  preside  with 
Hermes  and  Hercules  over  the  blooming  lot  of  the  con- 
tests, making  men  of  upright  hfe  their  special  charge; 
for  faithful  in  very  truth  is  the  race  of  gods. 

In  turn  they  spend  their  days,  one  day  together  they 
enjoy  with  Zeus,  their  father,  and  one  day  they  spend 
beneath  the  dark  earth  in  the  dells  of  Therapne,  thus 
fuliilling  an  equal  fate.  For  Polydeukes  made  the  choice 
for  them,  when  Castor  died  in  war,  rather  than  to 
be  himself  altogether  an  immortal  and  dwell  in  heaven. 
For  Idas  angered  about  his  herd,  slew  Castor  with  his 
brazen  spear  after  Lynceus,  whose  of  all  men's  was  the 
piercing  eye,  had  beheld  the  brothers  lurking  in  the  shade 
of  an  ancient  oak.  So  hastening  with  nimble  feet,  Idas 
and  Lynceus  came  and  quickly  wrought  the  bold  deed  for 
which  they  suffered  at  the  hands  of  Zeus  a  grievous  retri- 
bution. Forthwith  the  other  son  of  Leda  came  in  hot 
pursuit,  and  these  opposing  him  took  stand  hard  by  their 
father's  tomb,  from  whence  they  snatched  a  pohshed  stone, 
decoration  of  death,  and  hurled  it  at  the  breast  of  Poly- 
deukes ;  but  they  crushed  him  not,  nor  drove  him  back ; 
for  rushing  on  with  spear  swift  in  motion,  he  drove  the 
pointed  brass  into  the  side  of  Lynceus,  while  Zeus  upon 
Idas  hurled  his  smouldering  thunderbolt,  and  both  were 
149 


A  H,  friend,  let  us  be  true 
•^*-  To  one  another  !    For  the  world  which  seems 
To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 
Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain ; 
And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

Matthew  Arnold 


148 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

burned  together,  reft  of  mourners ;   for  men  intermeddle 
not  in  a  contest  with  the  mighty  ones. 

Speedily  to  his  brother  returned  the  mighty  son  of 
Zeus,  and  found  him  not  yet  dead,  but  with  short-drawn 
breath,  gasping  forth  his  Hfe.  Then  shedding  warm  tears 
with  sobs,  he  cried  loud  and  clear:  "O  Father,  son  of 
Cronos,  what  end  shall  ever  be  of  these  my  sorrows  ? 
To  me  also  with  him  ordain  strong  death,  O  King. 
Honor  is  gone  from  man  bereft  of  friends ;  and  in  distress 
few  mortals  be  faithful  enough  to  share  his  labor." 

Thus  then  he  prayed,  and  Zeus  before  him  came  and 
spoke : — 

"Thou  art  my  son,  but  he  the  later  bom  of  mortal  seed ; 
yet  come,  of  this  in  truth  I  give  thee  choice ;  if  thou  art 
willing  to  escape  death  and  hateful  age  and  in  Olympus 
dwell  with  Athene  and  Ares  of  the  bloody  spear,  this  is 
thy  rightful  lot ;  but  if  for  thy  brother's  sake  thou  plead- 
est,  and  art  mindful  to  share  with  him  an  equal  part  of 
aU  thou  hast,  then  half  thy  life  thou  must  spend  beneath 
the  earth,  half  in  the  golden  homes  of  heaven." 

When  thus  he  spake,  no  wavering  resolution  did  the 
mind  of  Polydeukes  hold;  so  Zeus  unclosed  the  eyes, 
and  loosed  the  voice  of  Castor  the  brazen-belted. 

Pindar 


150 


Brothers  in  Arms 


Damon  and  Pythias      ^c^y      ^;>y      ^::^      ^c^      -c:y 

'T~'WO  friends  of  the  Pythagorean  sect  lived  at  Syra- 
-'-  cuse,  in  the  end  of  the  fourth  century  before  the 
Christian  era.  Syracuse  was  a  great  Greek  city,  built  in 
Sicily,  and  full  of  all  kinds  of  Greek  art  and  learning; 
but  it  was  a  place  of  danger  in  their  time,  for  it  had  fallen 
under  the  tyranny  of  a  man  of  strange  and  capricious 
temper,  though  of  great  abilities,  namely,  Dionysius. 
He  is  said  to  have  been  originally  only  a  clerk  in  a  public 
office,  but  his  talents  raised  him  to  continually  higher 
situations,  and  at  length,  in  a  great  war  with  the  Car- 
thaginians, who  had  many  settlements  in  Sicily,  he  became 
general  of  the  army,  and  then  found  it  easy  to  establish 
his  power  over  the  city. 

This  power  was  not  according  to  the  laws,  for  Syracuse, 
like  most  other  cities,  ought  to  have  been  governed  by  a 
council  of  magistrates ;  but  Dionysius  was  an  exceedingly 
able  man,  and  made  the  city  much  more  rich  and  power- 
ful; he  defeated  the  Carthaginians,  and  rendered  Syracuse 
by  far  the  chief  city  in  the  island,  and  he  contrived  to 
make  every  one  so  much  afraid  of  him  that  no  one  durst 
attempt  to  overthrow  his  power.  .  .  .  Among  those  who 
came  under  his  anger  was  a  Pythagorean  called  Pythias, 
who  was  sentenced  to  death,  according  to  the  usual  fate 
of  those  who  fell  under  his  suspicion. 

Pythias  had  lands  and  relations  in  Greece,  and  he 
entreated  as  a  favor  to  be  allowed  to  return  thither 
and  arrange  his  affairs,  engaging  to  return  within  a  speci- 
fied time  to  suffer  death.  The  tyrant  laughed  his  request 
to  scorn.  Once  safe  out  of  Sicily,  who  would  answer 
for  his  return  ?    Pythias  made  reply  that  he  had  a  friend, 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

who  would  become  security  /or  his  return;  and  while 
Dionysius,  the  miserable  man  who  trusted  nobody,  was 
ready  to  scoff  at  his  simplicity,  another  Pythagorean, 
by  name  Damon,  came  forward,  and  offered  to  become 
surety  for  his  friend,  engaging,  if  Pythias  did  not  return 
according  to  promise,  to  suffer  death  in  his  stead. 

Dionysius,  much  astonished,  consented  to  let  Pythias 
go,  marvelling  what  would  be  the  issue  of  the  affair. 
Time  went  on,  and  Pythias  did  not  appear.  The  Syra- 
cusans  watched  Damon,  but  he  showed  no  uneasiness. 
He  said  he  was  secure  of  his  friend's  truth  and  honor, 
and  that  if  any  accident  had  caused  the  delay  of  his  re- 
turn, he  should  rejoice  in  dying  to  save  the  life  of  one  so 
dear  to  him. 

Even  to  the  last  day  Damon  continued  serene  and  con- 
tent, however  it  might  fall  out ;  nay,  even  when  the  very 
hour  drew  nigh  and  still  no  Pythias.  His  trust  was  so 
perfect,  that  he  did  not  even  grieve  at  having  to  die  for 
a  faithless  friend  who  had  left  him  to  the  fate  to  which  he 
had  unwarily  pledged  himself.  It  was  not  Pythias's  own 
will,  but  the  winds  and  waves,  so  he  still  declared  when 
the  decree  was  brought  and  the  instruments  of  death 
made  ready.  The  hour  had  come,  and  a  few  moments 
more  would  have  ended  Damon's  life,  when  Pythias  duly 
presented  himself,  embraced  his  friend,  and  stood  forward 
himself  to  receive  his  sentence,  calm,  resolute,  and  re- 
joiced that  he  had  come  in  time. 

Dionysius  looked  on  more  struck  than  ever.  He  felt 
that  neither  of  such  men  must  die.  He  reversed  the 
sentence  of  Pythias,  and  calling  the  two  to  his  judgment- 
seat,  he  entreated  them  to  admit  him  as  a  third  in  their 
friendship.  Charlotte  Yonge' 


Brothers  in  Arms 

The  Covenant  of  David  and  Jonathan     ''^     <:> 

A  ND  David  fled  from  Naioth  in  Ramah,  and  came 
■^^^  and  said  before  Jonathan,  What  have  I  done  ?  what 
is  mine  iniquity?  and  what  is  my  sin  before  thy  father 
that  he  seeketh  my  Ufe?  And  he  said  unto  him,  God 
forbid;  thou  shalt  not  die:  behold,  my  father  doeth 
nothing  either  great  or  small,  but  that  he  discloseth  it 
unto  me :  and  why  should  my  father  hide  this  thing 
from  me?  it  is  not  so.  And  David  sware  moreover, 
and  said,  Thy  father  knoweth  well  that  I  have  found 
grace  in  thine  eyes ;  and  he  saith,  Let  not  Jonathan  know 
this,  lest  he  be  grieved:  but  truly  as  the  Lord  liveth, 
and  as  thy  soul  liveth,  there  is  but  a  step  between  me  and 
death.  Then  said  Jonathan  unto  David,  Whatsoever 
thy  soul  desireth,  I  will  even  do  it  for  thee.  And  David 
said  unto  Jonathan,  Behold,  to-morrow  is  the  new  moon, 
and  I  should  not  fail  to  sit  with  the  king  at  meat :  but 
let  me  go  that  I  may  hide  myself  in  the  field  unto  the 
third  day  at  even.  If  thy  father  miss  me  at  all,  then  say, 
David  earnestly  asked  leave  of  me  that  he  might  run  to 
Bethlehem  his  city :  for  it  is  the  yearly  sacrifice  there  for 
all  the  family.  If  he  say  thus.  It  is  well;  thy  servant 
shall  have  peace :  but  if  he  be  wroth,  then  know  that  evil 
is  determined  by  him.  Therefore  deal  kindly  with  thy 
servant ;  for  thou  hast  brought  thy  servant  into  a  cove- 
nant of  the  Lord  with  thee :  but  if  there  be  in  me  iniquity, 
slay  me  thyself;  for  why  shouldest  thou  bring  me  to 
thy  father?  And  Jonathan  said.  Far  be  it  from  thee: 
for  if  I  should  at  all  know  that  evil  were  determined  by 
my  father  to  come  up>on  thee,  then  would  not  I  tell  it 
thee  ?    Then  said  David  to  Jonathan,  Who  shall  tell  me 

153 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

if  perchance  thy  father  answer  thee  roughly?  And 
Jonathan  said  unto  David,  Come  and  let  us  go  out  into 
the  field.  And  they  went  out  both  of  them  into  the  field. 
And  Jonathan  said  unto  David,  The  Lord,  the  God 
of  Israel,  be  witness ;  when  I  have  sounded  my  father 
about  this  time  to-morrow,  or  the  third  day,  behold,  if 
there  be  good  toward  David,  shall  I  not  then  send  imto 
thee,  and  disclose  it  unto  thee  ?  The  Lord  do  so  to  Jon- 
athan, and  more  also,  should  it  please  my  father  to  do 
thee  evil,  if  I  disclose  it  not  unto  thee,  and  send  thee 
away,  that  thou  mayest  go  in  peace:  and  the  Lord  be 
with  thee,  as  he  hath  been  with  my  father.  And  thou 
shalt  not  only  while  yet  I  live  show  me  the  kindness  of 
the  Lord,  that  I  die  not :  but  also  thou  shalt  not  cut  off 
thy  kindness  from  my  house  forever :  no,  not  when  the 
Lord  hath  cut  oflF  the  enemies  of  David  every  one  from 
the  face  of  the  earth.  So  Jonathan  made  a  covenant 
with  the  house  of  David,  saying,  And  the  Lord  shal. 
require  it  at  the  hand  of  David's  enemies.  And  Jona- 
than caused  David  to  swear  again,  for  the  love  that  he 
had  to  him :  for  he  loved  him  as  he  loved  his  own  soul. 
Then  Jonathan  said  unto  him,  To-morrow  is  the  new 
moon :  and  thou  shalt  be  missed,  because  thy  seat  will 
be  empty.  And  when  thou  hast  stayed  three  days, 
thou  shalt  go  down  quickly,  and  come  to  the  place  where 
thou  didst  hide  thyself  when  the  business  was  in  hand, 
and  shalt  remain  by  the  stone  Ezel.  And  I  will  shoot 
three  arrows  on  the  side  thereof,  as  though  I  shot  at  a 
mark.  And,  behold,  I  will  send  the  lad,  saying,  Go, 
find  the  arrows.  If  I  say  unto  the  lad,  Behold  the  arrows 
are  on  this  side  of  thee :  take  them,  and  come :  for  there 
is  peace  to  thee  and  no  hurt,  as  the  Lord  liveth.  But  if 
154 


Brothers  in  Arms 

I  say  thus  unto  the  boy,  Behold,  the  arrows  are  beyond 
thee:  go  thy  way;  for  the  Lord  hath  sent  thee  away. 
And  as  touching  the  matter  which  thou  and  I  have  spoken 
of,  behold,  the  Lord  is  between  thee  and  me  forever. 

So  David  hid  himself  in  the  field :  and  when  the  new 
moon  was  come,  the  king  sat  him  down  to  eat  meat. 
And  the  king  sat  upon  his  seat,  as  at  other  times,  even 
upon  the  seat  by  the  wall ;  and  Jonathan  stood  up,  and 
Abner  sat  by  Saul's  side :  but  David's  place  was  empty. 
Nevertheless  Saul  spake  not  anything  that  day :  for  he 
thought,  Something  hath  befallen  him,  he  is  not  clean; 
surely  he  is  not  clean.  And  it  came  to  pass  on  the  mor- 
row after  the  new  moon,  which  was  the  second  day,  that 
David's  place  was  empty :  and  Saul  said  unto  Jonathan 
his  son.  Wherefore  cometh  not  the  son  of  Jesse  to  meat, 
neither  yesterday,  nor  to-day  ?  And  Jonathan  answered 
Saul,  David  earnestly  asked  leave  of  me  to  go  to  Bethle- 
hem :  and  he  said.  Let  me  go,  I  pray  thee ;  for  our  family 
hath  a  sacrifice  in  the  city;  and  my  brother,  he  hath 
commanded  me  to  be  there:  and  now,  if  I  have  found 
favor  in  thine  eyes,  let  me  get  away,  I  pray  thee,  and 
see  my  brethren.  Therefore  he  is  not  come  unto  the 
king's  table.  Then  Saul's  anger  was  kindled  agamst 
Jonathan,  and  he  said  unto  him,  Thou  son  of  a  per- 
verse rebellious  woman,  do  not  I  know  that  thou  hast 
chosen  the  son  of  Jesse  to  thine  own  shame,  and  unto 
the  shame  of  thy  mother's  nakedness?  For  as  long 
as  the  son  of  Jesse  Uveth  upon  the  ground,  thou  shalt 
not  be  stablished,  nor  thy  kingdom.  Wherefore  now 
send  and  fetch  him  unto  me,  for  he  shall  surely  die. 
And  Jonathan  answered  Saul  his  father,  and  said  unto 
him,  Wherefore  should  he  be  put  to  death?  what  hath 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

he  done?  And  Saul  cast  his  spear  at  him  to  smite 
him :  whereby  Jonathan  knew  that  it  was  determined  of 
his  father  to  put  David  to  death.  So  Jonathan  arose 
from  the  table  in  fierce  anger,  and  did  eat  no  meat  the 
second  day  of  the  month :  for  he  was  grieved  for  David, 
because  his  father  had  done  him  shame. 

And  it  came  to  pass  in  the  morning,  that  Jonathan 
went  out  into  the  field  at  the  time  appointed  with  David, 
and  a  little  lad  with  him.  And  he  said  unto  his  lad,  Run, 
find  now  the  arrows  which  I  shoot.  And  as  the  lad  ran, 
he  shot  an  arrow  beyond  him.  And  when  the  lad  was 
come  to  the  place  of  the  arrow  which  Jonathan  had  shot, 
Jonathan  cried  after  the  lad,  and  said.  Is  not  the  arrow 
beyond  thee  ?  And  Jonathan  cried  after  the  lad,  Make 
speed,  haste,  stay  not.  And  Jonathan's  lad  gathered  up 
the  arrows,  and  came  to  his  master.  But  the  lad  knew 
not  anything :  only  Jonathan  and  David  knew  the  matter. 
And  Jonathan  gave  his  weapons  unto  his  lad,  and  said 
unto  him.  Go,  carry  them  to  the  city.  And  as  soon  as  the 
lad  was  gone,  David  arose  out  of  a  place  toward  the  South, 
and  fell  on  his  face  to  the  ground,  and  bowed  himself 
three  times:  and  they  kissed  one  another,  and  wept 
one  with  another,  until  David  exceeded.  And  Jonathan 
said  to  David,  Go  in  peace,  forasmuch  as  we  have  sworn 
both  of  us  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  saying,  The  Lord 
shall  be  between  me  and  thee,  and  between  my  seed  and 
thy  seed,  forever.  And  he  arose  and  departed:  and 
Jonathan  went  into  the  city. 

From  the  Book  of  Judges 

■pRIENDSHIP  is  a  word  the  very  sight  of  which 
■*■       in  print  makes  the  heart  warm. 

Augustine  Birr  ell 

156 


Brothers  In  Arms 


Ossian's  "  Song  of  Sorrow "      -o     <:>     ^i^     '«;2y 

C/X  childless  men  were  we,  who  ne'er  thought  harm  — 

A  brave  and  blameless  Ufe  we  Uved  alway ; 
But  one  of  us  soon  slept  beneath  the  cairn ; 
Remembering  him  this  night  I'm  sad  and  wae  — 

Five  were  we  now,  five  warriors  of  renown ; 

Woe  to  the  foe  that  dared  to  beard  us  there  ! 
Death  came  again  as  he  had  come  before  — 

Another  hero  vanished  from  our  ken. 

We  then  were  four,  hunting  the  forest  free, 
Fair  were  the  arms  our  good  right  hands  did  wield ; 

But  even  valor  saves  not  from  all  scaith  — 
Another  warrior  fell  in  battle-field. 

We  then  were  three,  far  famed  for  valorous  deeds : 
Bards  o'er  their  harps  sang  of  our  feats  the  while 

The  sun  pursued  his  course  from  east  to  west, 
We  lost  another  —  chief  withouten  guile  ! 

We  two  then  sat  upon  the  green  hillside 
(From  all  we  love  we're  fated  still  to  part) ; 

Insatiate  Death,  unlooked  for,  came  again. 
And  took  the  sole  companion  of  my  heart. 

Sad  and  alone  the  last  of  that  brave  band, 
Remembering  other  years  I  sit  and  mourn  — 

'Tis  fated  we  must  die,  but  still  'tis  sad 
To  go  the  journey  whence  shall  none  return. 

Of  the  nut  cluster  on  the  hazel  bough. 
The  last  nut  I  —  the  rest  are  fallen  and  gone ; 

157 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

About  to  fall  I  tremble  in  the  breeze 

That  wandering  through  the  woods  makes  eerie  moan  — 

The  last  tree  of  the  clump  upon  the  hill, 

Sapless  and  withered  I  stand  all  alone ; 
All  that  I  loved  are  gone  and  soon  must  I 

Fall  like  my  leaves  that  on  the  earth  are  strown. 

Sholto  bold,  and  Gorrie  brave,  and  Gaul 

And  Oscar  fleet  of  foot  and  fair  of  skin, 
Myself  and  Runo  from  the  hill  of  fawns  — 

These  were  the  Six  in  love  and  war  akin. 

James  Macpherson 

A  Reconciliation      ^o     <:>     -oy     <:i.'     ^^i-     <:> 

FOR  the  best  part  of  three  nights  we  travelled  on  eerie 
mountains  and  among  the  well-heads  of  wild  rivers; 
often  buried  in  mist,  almost  continually  blown  and  rained 
upon,  and  not  once  cheered  by  any  glimpse  of  sunshine. 
By  day,  we  lay  and  slept  in  the  drenching  heather;  by 
night,  incessantly  clambered  upon  breakneck  hiUs  and 
among  rude  crags.  We  often  wandered;  we  were  often 
so  involved  in  fog,  that  we  must  lie  quiet  till  it  lightened. 
A  fire  was  never  to  be  thought  of.  Our  only  food  was 
drammach  and  a  portion  of  cold  meat  that  we  had  carried 
from  the  Cage ;  and  as  for  drink,  Heaven  knows  we  had 
no  want  of  water.  .  .  , 

During  all  these  horrid  wanderings,  we  had  no  famil- 
iarity, scarcely  even  that  of  speech.  The  truth  is  that  I 
was  sickening  for  my  grave,  which  is  the  best  excuse. 
But  besides  that,  I  was  of  an  unforgiving  disposition  from 

158 


Brothers  in  Arms 

my  birth,  slow  to  take  offence,  slower  to  forget  it,  and  now 
incensed  both  against  my  companion  and  myself.  For 
the  best  part  of  two  days,  he  was  unweariedly  kind; 
silent,  indeed,  but  always  ready  to  help,  and  always  hoping 
(as  I  could  very  well  see)  that  my  displeasure  would  blow 
by.  For  the  same  length  of  time,  I  stayed  in  myself, 
nursing  my  anger,  roughly  refusing  his  services,  and 
passing  him  over  with  my  eyes  as  if  he  had  been  a  bush  or 
a  stone.  .  .  . 

All  the  while,  I  was  growing  worse  and  worse.  Once  I 
had  fallen,  my  legs  simply  doubling  under  me,  and  this  had 
struck  Alan  for  the  moment ;  but  I  was  afoot  so  briskly, 
and  set  off  again  with  such  a  natural  manner,  that  he 
soon  forgot  the  incident.  Flushes  of  heat  went  over  me, 
and  then  spasms  of  shuddering.  The  stitch  in  my  side 
was  hardly  bearable.  At  last,  I  began  to  feel  that  I 
could  trail  myself  no  farther ;  and  with  that  there  came 
on  me  all  at  once  the  wish  to  have  it  out  with  Alan, 
let  my  anger  blaze,  and  be  done  with  my  life  in  a  more 
sudden  manner.  He  had  just  called  me  "Whig."  I 
stopped. 

"Mr.  Stewart,"  said  I,  in  a  voice  that  quivered  like  a 
fiddle-string,  "you  are  older  than  I  am,  and  should  know 
your  manners.  Do  you  think  it  either  very  wise  or  very 
witty  to  cast  my  politics  in  my  teeth  ?  I  thought,  where 
folk  differed,  it  was  the  part  of  gentlemen  to  differ  civilly ; 
and  if  I  did  not,  I  may  tell  you  I  could  find  a  better  taunt 
than  some  of  yours." 

Alan  had  stopped  opposite  to  me,  his  hat  cocked,  his 
hands  in  his  breeches  pockets,  his  head  a  Httle  to  one 
side.  He  listened,  smiling  evilly,  as  I  could  see  by  the 
starlight;   and  when  I  had  done  he  began  to  whistle  a 

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Jacobite  air.    It  was  the  air  made  in  mockery  of  General 
Cope's  defeat  at  Preston  Pans :  — 

"  Hey,  Johnnie  Cope,  are  ye  waukin'  yet  ? 
And  are  your  drums  a-beatin'  yet  ?  " 

And  it  came  in  my  mind  that  Alan,  on  the  day  of  that 
battle,  had  been  engaged  upon  the  royal  side. 

"Why  do  ye  take  that  air,  Mr.  Stewart?"  said  I. 
"Is  that  to  remind  me  you  have  been  beaten  on  both 
sides?" 

The  air  stopped  on  Alan's  lips.     "David  !"  said  he. 

"But  it's  time  these  manners  ceased,"  I  continued; 
"and  I  mean  you  shall  henceforth  speak  civilly  of  my 
King  and  my  good  friends  the  Campbells." 

"I  am  a  Stewart  — "  began  Alan. 

"0  !"  says  I,  "I  ken  ye  bear  a  king's  name.  But  you 
are  to  remember,  since  I  have  been  in  the  Highlands,  I 
have  seen  a  good  many  of  those  that  bear  it ;  and  the  best 
I  can  say  of  them  is  this,  that  they  would  be  none  the 
worse  of  washing." 

"Do  you  know  that  you  insult  me?"  said  Alan,  very 
low. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  I,  "for  I  am  not  done ;  and 
if  you  distaste  the  sermon,  I  doubt  the  pirliecue  will 
please  you  as  little.  You  have  been  chased  in  the  field 
by  the  grown  men  of  my  party ;  it  seems  a  poor  kind  of 
pleasure  to  outface  a  boy.  Both  the  Campbells  and  the 
Whigs  have  beaten  you ;  you  have  run  before  them  like 
a  hare.  It  behooves  you  to  speak  of  them  as  of  your 
betters." 

Alan  stood  quite  still,  the  tails  of  his  great-coat  dapping 
behind  him  in  the  wind. 

i6o 


Brothers  in  Arms 

"This  is  a  pity,"  he  said  at  last.  "There  are  things 
said  that  cannot  be  passed  over." 

"I  never  asked  you  to,"  said  I.  "I  am  as  ready  as 
yourself." 

"Ready?"  said  he. 

"Ready,"  I  repeated.  "I  am  no  blower  and  boaster 
like  some  that  I  could  name.  Come  on  ! "  And  drawing 
my  sword,  I  fell  on  guard  as  Alan  himself  had  taught  me. 

"David!"  he  cried.  "Are  ye  daft?  I  cannae  draw 
upon  ye,  David.     It's  fair  murder." 

"That  was  your  lookout  when  you  insulted  me," 
said  I. 

"It's  the  truth  !"  cried  Alan,  and  he  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment, wringing  his  mouth  in  his  hand  like  a  man  in  sore 
perplexity.  "It's  the  bare  truth,"  he  said,  and  drew  his 
sword.  But  before  I  could  touch  his  blade  with  mine,  he 
had  thrown  it  from  him  and  fallen  to  the  ground.  "Na, 
na,"  he  kept  saying,  "na,  na  —  I  cannae,  I  cannae." 

At  this  the  last  of  my  anger  oozed  all  out  of  me ;  and  I 
found  myself  only  sick,  and  sorry,  and  blank,  and  wonder- 
ing at  myself.  I  would  have  given  the  world  to  take 
back  what  I  had  said ;  but  a  word  once  spoken,  who  can 
recapture  it?  I  minded  me  of  all  Alan's  kindness  and 
courage  in  the  past,  how  he  had  helped  and  cheered  and 
borne  with  me  in  our  evil  days;  and  then  recalled  my 
own  insults,  and  saw  that  I  had  lost  forever  that  doughty 
friend.  At  the  same  time,  the  sickness  that  hung  uf)on 
me  seemed  to  redouble,  and  the  pang  in  my  side  was 
like  a  sword  for  sharpness.  I  thought  I  must  have 
swooned  where  I  stood. 

This  it  was  that  gave  me  a  thought.  No  apology  could 
blot  out  what  I  had  said ;  it  was  needless  to  think  of  one, 
X  x6i 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

none  could  cover  the  oflfence ;  but  where  an  apology  was 
vain,  a  mere  cry  for  help  might  bring  Alan  back  to  my 
side.  I  put  my  pride  away  from  me.  "Alan,"  I  said; 
"if  you  cannae  help  me,  I  must  just  die  here." 

He  started  up  sitting,  and  looked  at  me. 

"It's  true,"  said  I.  "I'm  by  with  it.  O  let  me  get 
into  the  bield  of  a  house  —  I'U  can  die  there  easier." 
I  had  no  need  to  pretend ;  whether  I  chose  or  not,  I  spoke 
in  a  weeping  voice  that  would  have  melted  a  heart  of 
stone. 

"Can  ye  walk?"  asked  Alan. 

"No,"  said  I,  "not  without  help.  This  last  hour,  my 
legs  have  been  fainting  under  me ;  I've  a  stitch  in  my  side 
like  a  red-hot  iron;  I  cannae  breathe  right.  If  I  die, 
ye'll  can  forgive  me,  Alan  ?  In  my  heart,  I  liked  ye  fine 
—  even  when  I  was  the  angriest." 

"Wheesht,  wheesht !"  cried  Alan.  "Dinnae  say  that ! 
David,  man,  ye  ken  — "  He  shut  his  mouth  upon  a  sob. 
"Let  me  get  my  arm  about  ye,"  he  continued;  "that's 
the  way !  Now  lean  upon  me  hard.  Gude  kens  where 
there's  a  house  !  We're  in  Balwhidder,  too ;  there  should 
be  no  want  of  houses,  no,  nor  friends'  houses  here.  Do 
you  gang  easier  so,  Davie?" 

"Ay,"  said  I,  "I  can  be  doing  this  way ; "  and  I  pressed 
his  arm  with  my  hand. 

Again  he  came  near  sobbing.  "Davie,"  said  he, 
"I'm  no  a  right  man  at  all;  I  have  neither  sense  nor 
kindness;  I  couldnae  remember  ye  were  just  a  bairn,  I 
couldnae  see  ye  were  dying  on  your  feet;  Davie,  ye'll 
have  to  try  and  forgive  me." 

" 0  man,  let's  say  no  more  about  it ! "  said  I.  "We're 
neither  one  of  us  to  mend  the  other  —  that's  the  truth ! 
162 


Brothers  in  Arms 

We  must  just  bear  and  forbear,  man  Alan  !    O  but  my 
stitch  is  sore  !     Is  there  nae  house  ?  " 

"I'll  find  a  house  to  ye,  David,"  he  said  stoutly. 
"We'll  follow  down  the  burn,  where  there's  bound  to  be 
houses.     My  poor  man,  will  ye  no  be  better  on  my  back  ?  " 

"O  Alan,"  says  I,  "and  me  a  good  twelve  inches 
taUer?" 

"Ye're  no  such  a  thing,"  cried  Alan,  with  a  start, 
"There  may  be  a  trifling  matter  of  an  inch  or  two;  I'm 
no  saying  I'm  just  exactly  what  ye  would  call  a  tall  man, 
whatever;  and  I  daresay,"  he  added,  his  voice  tailing 
off  in  a  laughable  manner,  "now  when  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  I  daresay  ye'll  be  just  about  right.  Ay,  it'll  be  a 
foot,  or  near  hand ;  or  maybe  even  mair ! " 

It  was  sweet  and  laughable  to  hear  Alan  eat  his  words 
up  in  the  fear  of  some  fresh  quarrel.  I  could  have 
laughed,  had  not  my  stitch  caught  me  so  hard ;  but  if  I 
had  laughed,  I  think  I  must  have  wept,  too. 

"Alan,"  cried  I,  "what  makes  ye  so  good  to  me  ?  what 
makes  ye  care  for  such  a  thankless  fellow  ?  " 

"Deed,  and  I  don't  know,"  said  Alan.  "For  just 
precisely  what  I  thought  I  Uked  about  ye,  was  that  ye 
never  quarrelled ;  —  and  now  I  like  ye  better  ! " 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


"C*  RIENDSHIP  is  usually  treated  by  the  majority  of 
■*■  mankind  as  a  tough  and  everlasting  thing  which 
will  survive  all  manner  of  bad  treatment.  But  this  is 
an  exceedingly  great  and  foolish  error ;  it  may  die  in 
an  hour  of  a  single  unwise  word. 

Ouida 
163 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

As  Toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  Woods        -^^ 

A  S  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods, 
"^  *•  To  the  music  of  rustling  leaves  kick'd  by  my  feet 

(for  'twas  autumn), 
I  mark'd  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  grave  of  a  soldier; 
Mortally  wounded  he  and  buried  on  the  retreat  (easUy 

all  could  I  understand), 
The  halt  of  a  midday  hour,  when  up  !  no  time  to  lose  — 

yet  this  sign  left. 
On  a  tablet  scrawl'd  and  nail'd  on  the  tree  by  the  grave, 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

Long,  long  I  muse,  then  on  my  way  go  wandering. 
Many  a  changeful  season  to  follow,  and  many  a  scene 

of  life, 
Yet  at  times  through  changeful  season  and  scene,  abrupt, 

alone,  or  in  the  crowded  street. 
Comes  before  me  the  unknown  soldier's  grave,  comes  the 

inscription  rude  in  Virginia's  woods, 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  atid  my  loving  comrade. 

Wait  Whitman 


Poets  as  Friends     -^^^     ^;:iy     -<;i^     ^c^^     <;:>     -=;> 

"pOETS  would  seem  to  have  been  fortunate  in  the 
-*-  matter  of  friends.  It  is  true  that  Dr.  Johnson, 
repeating  the  assertion  that  no  professor  of  his  art  ever 
loved  another,  appears  to  indorse  the  moral  to  be  drawn 
from  the  confession,  with  the  wider  application  of  it  to 
all  whom  talent  or  life  have  made  competitors.  But 
history  gives  the  calumny  the  lie.  What  tribute,  for 
164 


Brothers  in  Arms 

instance,  could  be  more  generous  and  whole-hearted  than 
that  which,  paid  by  Cowley  to  his  brother  poet  Crashaw, 
remains  a  monument  forever  of  the  love  of  friend  for 
friend  ?  — 

"  Poet  and  Saint !  to  thee  alone  are  given 
The  two  most  sacred  names  of  earth  and  heav'n. 
The  hard  and  rarest  union  which  can  be 
Next  that  of  Godhead  with  Humanity. 


And  I  myself  a  Catholick  will  be. 

So  far  at  least,  great  saint,  to  pray  to  thee." 

And,  not  to  dwell  on  more  recent  examples,  —  on  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge  —  Keats  and  Shelley,  —  surely 
the  affection  which  bound  together  the  two  great  rivals 
of  their  age  and  country,  Schiller  and  Goethe,  would  of 
itself  be  sufficient  to  refute  the  slander.  In  their  case  the 
slow,  almost  reluctant  growth  of  the  connection  is  of 
singular  interest,  culminating  as  it  did  in  the  attachment 
which  must  have  changed  for  each  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  course  of  their  friendship  is  well  known,  the  unswerv- 
ing loyalty  of  each  to  each,  in  spite  of  all  endeavors  to 
sow  jealousy  and  dissension  between  them,  and  the  gen- 
erous appreciation  by  each  of  the  pecuUar  gifts  of  the 
other.  "You  have  created  a  new  youth  for  me,"  writes 
Goethe,  the  elder  by  ten  years.  And  death  coming  found 
the  tie  as  strong  as  ever.  The  history  of  the  closing  scene 
possesses  a  pathos  enhanced  by  the  habitual  impassi- 
bility of  the  survivor.  When  Schiller  was  struck  down, 
no  one,  we  are  told,  ventured  to  communicate  to  the  older 
man  the  news  of  his  loss ;  nor  did  the  latter,  surmising 
from  the  bearing  of  those  about  him  that  something  was 
wrong,  dare  to  demand  corroboration  of  his  fears.  "  Schil- 

165 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

ler  must  be  very  ill,"  was  all  he  said.  But  in  the  night, 
alone  with  his  forebodings,  the  great  poet,  usually  above 
all  manifestations  of  emotion,  was  heard  weeping.  The 
next  day  he  asked  and  obtained  the  truth.  Of  what 
that  truth  signified  to  him  we  find  the  summing  up  in  a 
subsequent  letter.  "The  half  of  my  existence  is  gone 
from  me,"  he  writes. 

/.  A .  Taylor 

Song  of  a  Fellow- Worker  ^;>    ^^y    ^^^^    <:i.    ^i>. 

T  FOUND  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed  I  toiled  alone : 
■^    My  toil  was  fashioning  thought  and  sound,  and  his 

was  hewing  stone ; 
I  worked  in  the  palace  of  my  brain,  he  in  the  common 

street, 
And  it  seemed  his  toil  was  great  and  hard,  while  mine 

was  great  and  sweet. 

I  said,  "O  fellow-worker,  yea,  for  I  am  a  worker  too. 
The  heart  nigh  fails  me  many  a  day,  but  how  is  it  with 

you? 
For  while  I  toU  great  tears  of  joy  wiU  sometimes  fill  my 

eyes. 
And  when  I  form  my  perfect  work  it  Uves  and  never  dies. 

"I  carve  the  marble  of  pure  thought  until  the  thought 

takes  form. 
Until  it  gleams  before  my  soul  and  makes  the  world  grow 

warm; 
Until  there  come  the  glorious  voice  and  words  that  seem 

divine, 
And  the  music  reaches  all  men's  hearts  and  draws  them 

into  mine. 

166 


Brothers  in  Arms 

"And  yet  for  days  it  seems  my  heart  shall  blossom  never 

more, 
And  the  burden  of  my  loneliness  lies  on  me  very  sore : 
Therefore,  O  hewer  of  the  stones  that  pave  base  human 

ways, 
How  canst  thou  bear  the  years  till  death,  made  of  such 

thankless  days  ?  " 

Then  he  repUed :  "  Ere  sunrise,  when  the  pale  lips  of  the 

day 
Sent  forth  an  earnest  thrill  of  breath  at  warmth  of  the 

first  ray, 
A  great  thought  rose  within  me,  how,  while  men  asleep 

had  lain. 
The  thousand  labors  of  the  world  had  grown  up  once  again. 

"The  sun  grew  on  the  world,  and  on  my  soul  the  thought 

grew  too,  — 
A  great  appalling  svm,  to  light  my  soul  the  long  day 

through. 
I  felt  the  world's  whole  burden  for  a  moment,  then  began 
With  man's  gigantic  strength  to  do  the  labor  of  one  man. 

"  I  went  forth  hastily,  and  lo  !  I  met  a  hundred  men. 
The  worker  with  the  chisel  and  the  worker  with  the  pen,  — 
The  restless  toilers  after  good,  who  sow  and  never  reap, 
And  one  who  maketh  music  for  their  souls  that  may  not 
sleep. 

"Each  passed  me  with  a  dauntless  look,  and  my  un- 
daunted eyes 

Were  almost  softened  as  they  passed  with  tears  that 
strove  to  rise 

167 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

At  sight  of  all  those  labors,  and  because  that  every  one, 
Ay,  the  greatest,  would  be  weziker  if  my  Httle  were 
undone. 

"They  passed  me,  having  faith  in  me,  and  in  our  several 

ways. 
Together  we  began  to-day  as  on  the  other  days: 
I  felt  their  mighty  hands  at  work,  and,  as  the  day  wore 

through. 
Perhaps  they  felt  that  even  I  was  helping  somewhat  too : 

"Perhaps  they  felt,  as  with   those  hands  they  lifted 

mightily 
The  burden  once  more  laid  upon  the  world  so  heavily, 
That  while  they  nobly  held  it  as  each  man  can  do  and 

bear. 
It  did  not  whoUy  fall  my  side  as  though  no  man  were 

there. 

"And  so  we  toil  together  many  a  day  from  morn  till 

night, 
I  in  the  lower  depths  of  life,  they  on  the  lovely  height ; 
For  though  the  common  stones  are  mine,  and  they  have 

lofty  cares. 
Their  work  begins  where  this  leaves  off,  and  mine  is  part 

of  theirs. 

"And  'tis  not  whoUy  mine  or  theirs  I  think  of  through 

the  day, 
But  the  great  eternal  thing  we  make  together,  I  and  they ; 
Far  in  the  sunset  I  behold  a  city  that  man  owns, 
Made  fair  with  all  their  nobler  toil,  built  of  my  common 

stones. 

i68 


Brothers  in  Arms 

"Then  noonward,  as  the  task  grows  hght  with  all  the 

labor  done, 
The  single  thought  of  all  the  day  becomes  a  joyous  one : 
For,  rising  in  my  heart  at  last  where  it  has  lain  so  long, 
It  thrills  up  seeking  for  a  voice,  and  grows  almost  a  song. 

"But  when  the  evening  comes,  indeed,  the  words  have 

taken  wing, 
The  thought  sings  in  me  still,  but  I  am  all  too  tired  to 

sing; 
Therefore,  O  you  my  friend,  who  serve  the  world  with 

minstrelsy, 
Among  our  fellow-workers'  songs  make  that  one  song 

for  me." 

Arthur  O'Shaughnessy 

D'Artagnan  joins  the  Musketeers     -o    ^^y    <:> 

'PX'ARTAGNAN  was  acquainted  with  nobody  in 
■^-^  Paris.  He  went,  therefore,  to  his  appointment  with 
Athos,  without  a  second,  determined  to  be  satisfied  with 
those  his  adversary  should  choose.  Besides,  his  inten- 
tion was  formed  to  make  the  brave  musketeer  all  suitable 
apologies,  but  without  meanness  or  weakness,  fearing 
that  that  might  result  from  this  duel  which  generally 
results  from  an  affair  of  the  kind,  when  a  young  and 
vigorous  man  fights  with  an  adversary  who  is  wounded 
and  weakened;  if  conquered,  he  doubles  the  triumph  of 
his  antagonist;  if  a  conqueror,  he  is  accused  of  foul  play 
and  want  of  courage. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Athos,  "I  have  engaged  two  of  my 
friends  as  seconds;    but  these  two  friends  are  not  yet 
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The  Book  of  Friendship 

come,  at  which  I  am  astonished,  as  it  is  not  at  all  their 
custom  to  be  behindhand." 

"I  have  no  seconds  on  my  part,  monsieur,"  said 
D'Artagnan;  "for,  having  only  arrived  yesterday  in 
Paris,  I  as  yet  know  no  one  but  M.  de  Treville,  to  whom 
I  was  recommended  by  my  father,  who  has  the  honor  to 
be,  in  some  degree,  one  of  his  friends." 

Athos  reflected  for  an  instant. 

"You  know  no  one  but  M.  de  Treville  ? "  he  asked. 

"No,  monsieur;   I  only  know  him." 

"Well,  but  then,"  continued  Athos,  speaking  partly  to 
himself,  "well,  but  then,  if  I  kill  you,  I  shall  have  the  air 
of  a  boy-slayer." 

"Not  too  much  so,"  rephed  D'Artagnan,  with  a  bow 
that  was  not  deficient  in  dignity,  "not  too  much  so, 
since  you  do  me  the  honor  to  draw  a  sword  with  me 
whilst  suffering  from  a  wound  which  is  very  painful." 

"Well,  that  is  again  well  said,"  cried  Athos,  with  a 
gracious  nod  to  D'Artagnan,  that  did  not  come  from  a 
man  without  brains,  and  certainly  not  from  a  man  without 
a  heart.  "Monsieur,  I  love  men  of  your  kidney,  and  I 
foresee  plainly  that,  if  we  don't  kill  each  other,  I  shall 
hereafter  have  much  pleasure  in  your  conversation.  We 
will  wait  for  these  gentlemen,  if  you  please;  I  have  plenty 
of  time,  and  it  will  be  more  correct.  Ah  !  here  is  one  of 
them,  I  think." 

In  fact,  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  Vanguard,  the  gigantic 
form  of  Porthos  began  to  appear. 

"What !"  cried  D'Artagnan,  "is  your  first  second  M. 
Porthos?" 

"Yes.    Is  that  unpleasant  to  you ? " 

"Oh,  not  at  aU." 

170 


Brothers  in  Arms 

"And  here  comes  the  other." 

D'Artagnan  turned  in  the  direction  pointed  to  by 
Athos,  and  perceived  Aramis. 

"What!"  cried  he,  in  an  accent  of  greater  astonish- 
ment than  before,  "is  your  second  witness  M.  Aramis?" 

"Doubtless  he  is.  Are  you  not  aware  that  we  are 
never  seen  one  without  the  others,  and  that  we  are  called 
in  the  musketeers  and  the  guards,  at  court  and  in  the 
city,  Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis,  or  the  three  insepa- 
rables ?    And  yet,  as  you  come  from  Dax  or  Pau  —  " 

"From  Tarbes,"  said  D'Artagnan. 

"It  is  probable  you  are  ignorant  of  this  circumstance," 
said  Athos. 

"Ma  foil"  repUed  D'Artagnan,  "you  are  well  named, 
gentlemen,  and  my  adventure,  if  it  should  make  any 
noise,  will  prove  at  least  that  your  union  is  not  founded 
upon  contrasts!  " 

In  the  meantime  Porthos  had  come  up,  waved  his  hand 
to  Athos,  and  then  turning  towards  D'Artagnan,  stood 
quite  astonished. 

Permit  us  to  say,  in  passing,  that  he  had  changed  his 
baldrick,  and  was  without  his  cloak. 

"Ah,  ah  ! "  said  he,  "what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"This  is  the  gentleman  I  am  going  to  fight  with,"  said 
Athos,  p>ointing  to  D'Artagnan  with  his  hand,  and  salut- 
ing him  with  the  same  gesture. 

"Why,  it  is  with  him  I  am  also  going  to  fight,"  said 
Porthos. 

"But  not  before  one  o'clock,"  replied  D'Artagnan. 

"Well,  and  I  also  am  going  to  fight  with  that  gentle- 
man," said  Aramis,  coming  on  to  the  ground  as  he 
spoke. 

171 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

"But  not  till  two  o'clock,"  said  D'Artagnan,  with  the 
same  calmness. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  fight  about,  Athos  ?  "  asked 
Aramis. 

"Ma  foil  I  don't  very  well  know;  he  hurt  my  shovd- 
der.    And  you,  Porthos  ?  " 

"Mafoi!  I  am  going  to  fight,  because  I  am  going  to 
fight,"  answered  Porthos,  coloring  deeply. 

Athos,  whose  keen  eye  lost  nothing,  perceived  a  faintly 
sly  smile  pass  over  the  Hps  of  the  young  Gascon,  as  he 
replied:  — 

"We  had  a  short  discussion  upon  dress." 

"And  you,  Aramis?"  asked  Athos. 

"Oh,  ours  is  a  theological  quarrel,"  replied  Aramis, 
making  a  sign  to  D'Artagnan  to  keep  secret  the  cause  of 
their  dispute. 

Athos  saw  a  second  smile  on  the  hps  of  D'Artagnan. 

"Indeed?"  said  Athos. 

"Yes ;  a  passage  of  St.  Augustin,  upon  which  we  would 
not  agree,"  said  the  Gascon. 

"By  Jove  !  this  is  a  clever  fellow,"  murmured  Athos. 

"And  now  you  are  all  assembled,  gentlemen,"  said 
D'Artagnan,  "to  permit  me  to  oflfer  you  my  excuses." 

At  this  word  excuses,  a  cloud  passed  over  the  brow  of 
Athos,  a  haughty  smile  curled  the  lip  of  Porthos,  and  a 
negative  sign  was  the  reply  of  Aramis. 

"You  do  not  understand  me,  gentlemen,"  said  D'Ar- 
tagnan, throwing  up  his  head,  the  sharp  and  bold  lines 
of  which  were  at  the  moment  gilded  by  a  bright  sun  ray. 
"I  ask  to  be  excused  in  case  I  should  not  be  able  to  dis- 
charge my  debt  to  all  three  ;  for  M.  Athos  has  the  right 
to  kill  me  first,  which  must  abate  your  valor  in  your 
172 


Brothers  in  Arms 

own  estimation,  M.  Porthos,  and  render  yours  almost 
null,  M.  Aramis.  And  now,  gentlemen,  I  repeat,  excuse 
me,  but  on  that  account  only,  and  —  guard  ! " 

At  these  words,  with  the  most  gallant  air  possible, 
D'Artagnan  drew  his  sword. 

The  blood  had  mounted  to  the  head  of  D'Artagnan, 
and  at  that  moment  he  would  have  drawn  his  sword 
against  all  the  musketeers  in  the  kingdom,  as  wiUingly 
as  he  now  did  against  Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis. 

It  was  a  quarter  past  mid-day.  The  sun  was  in  its 
zenith,  and  the  sp>ot  chosen  for  the  theatre  of  the  duel 
was  exposed  to  its  fuU  power. 

"It  is  very  hot,"  said  Athos,  drawing  his  sword  in  his 
turn,  "and  yet  I  cannot  take  off  my  doublet ;  for  I  just 
now  felt  my  wound  begin  to  bleed  again,  and  I  should  not 
like  to  annoy  monsieur  with  the  sight  of  blood  which  he 
has  not  drawn  from  me  himself." 

"That  is  true,  monsieur,"  replied  D'Artagnan,  "and, 
whether  drawn  by  myself  or  another,  I  assure  .you  I 
shall  always  view  with  regret  the  blood  of  so  brave  a 
gentleman;  I  will  therefore  fight  in  my  doublet,  as  you 
do." 

"Come,  come,  enough  of  compliments,"  cried  Porthos; 
"please  to  remember  we  are  waiting  for  our  turns." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  when  you  are  inchned  to  utter 
such  incongruities,"  interrupted  Aramis.  "For  my  part, 
I  think  what  they  say  is  very  well  said,  and  quite  worthy 
of  two  gentlemen." 

"When  you  please,  monsieur,"  said  Athos,  putting 
himself  on  guard. 

"I  waited  your  orders,"  said  D'Artagnan,  crossing 
swords. 

173 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

But  scarcely  had  the  two  rapiers  sounded  on  meeting, 
when  a  company  of  the  guards  of  his  Eminence,  com- 
manded by  M.  de  Jussac,  turned  the  angle  of  the  con- 
vent. 

"The  cardinal's  guards  !  the  cardinal's  guards  !"  cried 
Aramis  and  Porthos  at  the  same  time.  "  Sheathe  swords ! 
gentlemen  !  sheathe  swords  !" 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  two  combatants  had  been 
seen  in  a  position  which  left  no  doubt  of  their  intentions. 

"Hola!"  cried  Jussac,  advancing  towards  them,  and 
making  a  sign  to  his  men  to  do  so  Ukewise,  "hola  !  mus- 
keteers, fighting  here,  then,  are  you?  And  the  edicts, 
what  is  become  of  them  ?  " 

"You  are  very  generous,  gentlemen  of  the  guards," 
said  Athos,  with  acrimony,  for  Jussac  was  one  of  the 
aggressors  of  the  preceding  day.  "If  we  were  to  see  you 
fighting,  I  can  assure  you  that  we  would  make  no  effort 
to  prevent  you.  Leave  us  alone,  then,  and  you  will 
enjoy  a  little  amusement  without  cost  to  yourselves." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Jussac,  "it  is  with  great  regret  that 
I  pronounce  the  thing  impossible.  Duty  before  every- 
thing.    Sheathe,  then,  if  you  please,  and  follow  us." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Aramis,  parodying  Jussac,  "it  would 
afford  us  great  pleasure  to  obey  your  pohte  invitation, 
if  it  depended  upon  ourselves;  but,  unfortunately,  the 
thing  is  impossible;  M.  de  Treville  has  forbidden  it. 
Pass  on  your  way,  then;    it  is  the  best  thing  you  can  do." 

This  raillery  exasperated  Jussac. 

"We  will  charge  upon  you,  then,"  said  he,  "if  you 
disobey." 

"There  are  five  of  them,"  said  Athos,  half  aloud, 
"and  we  are  but  three;  we  shall  be  beaten  again,  and 
174 


Brothers  in  Arms 

must  die  on  the  spot,  for,  on  my  part,  I  declare  I  will 
never  appear  before  the  captain  again  as  conquered 
man." 

Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis  instantly  closed  in,  and 
Jussac  drew  up  his  soldiers. 

This  short  interval  was  suflScient  to  determine  D'Ar- 
tagnan  on  the  part  he  was  to  take ;  it  was  one  of  those 
events  which  decide  the  Ufe  of  a  man;  it  was  a  choice 
between  the  king  and  the  cardinal;  the  choice  made,  it 
must  be  persisted  in.  To  fight  was  to  disobey  the  law, 
to  risk  his  head,  to  make  at  once  an  enemy  of  a  minister 
more  powerful  than  the  king  himself;  all  this  the  young 
man  perceived,  and  yet,  to  his  praise  we  speak  it,  he  did 
not  hesitate  a  second.  Turning  towards  Athos  and  his 
friends,  — 

'!  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "allow  me  to  correct  your  words, 
if  you  please.  You  said  you  were  but  three,  but  it  ap- 
pears to  me  we  are  four." 

"But  you  are  not  one  of  us,"  said  Porthos. 

"That's  true,"  repUed  D'Artagnan;  "I  do  not  wear 
the  uniform,  but  I  am  in  spirit.  My  heart  is  that  of  a 
musketeer;  I  feel  it,  monsieur,  and  that  impels  me  on." 

"Withdraw,  young  man,"  cried  Jussac,  who,  doubtless, 
by  his  gestures  and  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  had 
guessed  D'Artagnan's  design. 

"You  may  retire;  we  allow  you  to  do  so.  Save  your 
skin;  begone  quickly." 

D'Artagnan  did  not  move. 

"Decidedly  you  are  a  pretty  fellow,"  said  Athos, 
pressing  the  young  man's  hand. 

"Come,  come,  decide  one  way  or  the  other,"  replied 
Jussac. 

175 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

"Well,"  said  Porthos  to  Aramis,  "we  must  do  some- 
thing." 

"Monsieur  is  very  generous,"  said  Athos. 

But  all  three  reflected  upon  the  youth  of  D'Artagnan, 
and  dreaded  his  inexperience. 

"We  should  only  be  three,  one  of  whom  is  woimded, 
with  the  addition  of  a  boy,"  resumed  Athos,  "and  yet  it 
wiU  be  not  the  less  said  we  were  four  men." 

"Yes,  but  to  yield  !"  said  Porthos. 

"That's  rather  difficult,"  replied  Athos. 

D'Artagnan  comprehended  whence  a  part  of  this  irres- 
olution arose. 

"Try  me,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "and  I  swear  to  you  by 
my  honor  that  I  will  not  go  hence  if  we  are  conquered." 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  brave  fellow  ?  "  said  Athos. 

"D'Artagnan,  monsieur." 

"Well,  then!  Athos,  Porthos,  Aramis,  and  D'Ar- 
tagnan, forward  ! "  cried  Athos. 

Alexandre  Dumas 

Amis  and  Amile    <::>    "viv    "viv    -oy    '^i^    -^y    <:^ 

TN  the  time  of  Pepin,  King  of  France,  was  a  child 
-*■  born  in  the  Castle  of  Bericain  of  a  noble  father  of 
Alemaine  who  was  of  great  holiness.  .  .  . 

The  child  was  born  and  dearly  fostered,  and  when  he 
had  two  years,  and  the  father  after  his  purpose  was  bear- 
ing him  to  Rome,  he  came  to  the  city  of  Lucca.  And 
therein  he  found  a  noble  man  of  Almaine  who  was  wend- 
ing Romeward  and  bearing  his  son  to  baptism.  They 
greeted  one  the  other,  and  each  asked  the  other  who  he 
was  and  what  he  sought,  and  when  they  found  themselves 
176 


Brothers  In  Arms 

to  be  of  one  purpose,  they  joined  company  in  all  friendli- 
ness and  entered  Rome  together.  And  the  two  children 
fell  to  loving  one  another  so  sorely  that  one  would  not 
eat  without  the  other,  they  lived  of  one  victual,  and  lay 
in  one  bed. 

Thereafter  Adrian,  Apostle  of  Rome,  sent  word  to 
Charles,  King  of  France,  that  he  come  help  him  against 
Desir,  the  King  of  the  Lombards,  who  much  tormented 
the  Church ;  and  Charles  was  as  then  in  the  town  of 
Theodicion.  Thither  came  Peter,  messenger  of  the 
Apostle,  who  said  to  him  that  the  Apostle  prayed  him  to 
come  defend  Holy  Church.  Thereupon  King  Charles 
sent  to  the  said  Desir  messengers  to  pray  him  that  he 
give  back  to  the  Holy  Father  the  cities  and  other  things 
which  he  had  taken  from  him,  and  that  he  would  give 
him  thereto  the  sum  of  forty  thousand  sols  of  gold  in  gold 
and  in  silver.  But  he  would  give  way  neither  for  prayers 
nor  gifts.  Thereon  the  good  King  bade  come  to  him  all 
manner  of  folk.  Bishops,  Abbots,  Dukes,  Princes,  Mar- 
quises, and  other  strong  knights.  And  he  sent  to  Cluses 
certain  of  these  for  to  guard  the  passage  of  the  ways.  .  .  . 

So  the  King  Desir  and  the  whole  host  of  the  Lombards 
together  fled  away  to  the  place  hight  Mortara,  which  in 
those  days  was  called  Fair-wood,  whereas  thereabout  was 
the  land  delectable :  there  they  refreshed  them  and  took 
heed  to  their  horses. 

On  the  morrow  mom  King  Charles  and  his  host  came 
thither,  and  found  the  Lombards  all  armed,  and  there  they 
joined  battle,  and  a  great  multitude  of  dead  there  was 
on  one  side  and  the  other,  and  because  of  this  slaughtoc 
had  the  place  to  name  Mortara. 

N  177 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Moreover,  there  died  Amis  and  Amile,  for  even  as 
God  had  joined  them  together  by  good  accord  in  their 
Hfe-days,  so  in  their  death  they  were  not  sundered. 
Withal  many  another  doughty  baron  was  slain  with  them. 
But  Desir,  together  with  his  judges,  and  a  great  multitude 
of  the  Lombards,  fled  away  and  entered  into  Pavia ; 
and  King  Charles  followed  after  them,  and  besieged  the 
city  on  all  sides.  Withal  he  sent  into  France  for  his  wife 
and  his  children.  But  the  holy  Albins,  bishop  of  Angier, 
and  many  other  bishops  and  abbots  gave  counsel  to  the 
Eling  and  the  Queen,  that  they  should  bury  the  dead  and 
make  there  a  church  :  and  the  said  counsel  pleased  much 
the  King,  and  there  were  made  two  churches,  one  by  the 
commandment  of  Charles  in  honor  of  St.  Eusebius  of 
VerceU,  and  the  other  by  the  commandment  of  the  Queen 
in  honor  of  St.  Peter. 

And  the  King  did  do  bear  thither  two  arks  of  stone, 
wherein  were  buried  Amis  and  Amile ;  and  Amile  was 
borne  into  the  Church  of  St.  Peter,  and  Amis  into  the 
Church  of  St.  Eusebius ;  and  the  other  corpses  were 
buried  here  and  there.  But  on  the  morrow's  morn  the 
body  of  Amile,  and  his  cofiin  therewith,  was  found  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Eusebius  hard  by  the  coffin  of  Amis  his 
fellow.  "  Old  French  Romance," 

translated  by  William  Morris 


178 


vn 

ODD    COMPANIONS 


179 


1!j 


^^ 


W'iJ 


ODD   COMPANIONS 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza 

Jennie  Wren  and  Riah  the  Jew 

A  Genius  for  Friendship 

The  Romany  Rye  and  the  Gypsy  Lad 

Uncle  Toby  and  Corporal  Trim 


t:- 


&i 


nPHE  wise  man  seeks  a  friend  in  whom  are  those 
-■-     qualities   which   he   himself   may  lack;   for   thus 
being  united  is  their  friendship  the  more  completely 
defended  against  adversity. 

Jeremy  Taylor 


182 


Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza      <::iK     'Ci.     <:> 

"(TANCHO,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "let  us  lay  aside  all 
'^  manner  of  animosity;  let  us  forget  and  forgive 
injuries;  and  answer  me  as  sp)eedily  as  thou  canst, 
without  any  remains  of  thy  last  displeasure,  how,  when, 
and  where  didst  thou  find  my  lady  Dulcinea  ?  What 
was  she  doing  when  thou  first  paid'st  thy  respects  to  her  ? 
How  didst  thou  express  thyself  to  her?  What  answer 
was  she  pleased  to  make  thee  ?  What  countenance  did 
she  put  on  at  the  perusal  of  my  letter?  Who  tran- 
scribed it  fairly  for  thee  ?  And  everything  else  which 
has  any  relation  to  this  affair,  without  addition,  lies,  or 
flattery.  On  the  other  side,  take  care  thou  losest  not 
a  tittle  of  the  whole  matter,  by  abbreviating  it,  lest  thou 
rob  me  of  part  of  that  delight,  which  I  propose  to  myself 
from  it."  —  "Sir,"  answered  Sancho,  "if  I  must  speak 
the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  nobody  copied 
out  the  letter  for  me ;  for  I  carried  none  at  all."  — 
"That's  right,"  cried  Don  Quixote,  "for  I  found  the 
pocket-book,  in  which  it  was  written,  two  days  after  thy 
departure,  which  occasioned  exceeding  grief  in  me, 
because  I  knew  not  what  thou  could'st  do,  when  thou 
found'st  thyself  without  the  letter ;  and  I  could  not  but 
be  induced  to  believe  that  thou  would'st  have  returned, 
in  order  to  take  it  with  thee."  —  "I  had  certainly  done 
so,"  repUed  Sancho,  "were  it  not  for  this  head  of  mine, 
which  kept  it  in  remembrance  ever  since  your  worship 
read  it  to  me,  and  help)ed  me  to  say  it  over  to  a  parish- 
clerk,  who  writ  it  out  for  me  word  for  word  so  purely, 

183 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

that  he  swore,  though  he  had  written  out  many  a  letter 
of  excommunication  in  his  time,  he  never  in  all  the  days 
of  his  life  had  read  or  seen  anything  so  well  spoken  as  it 
was."  —  "And  dost  thou  still  retain  the  memory  of  it, 
my  dear  Sancho?"  cried  Don  Quixote.  —  "Not  I," 
quoth  Sancho;  "for  as  soon  as  I  had  given  it  her,  and 
your  turn  was  served,  I  was  very  willing  to  forget  it. 
But  if  I  remember  anything,  it  is  what  was  on  the  top; 
and  it  was  thus :  High  and  superficial,  I  would  say,  sov- 
ereign lady:  and  at  the  bottom,  Yours  until  death,  the 
Knight  of  the  Doleful  Countenance ;  and  I  put  between 
these  two  things  three  hundred  souls  and  lives  and 
pigsnyes." 

"All  this  is  mighty  well,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  "proceed, 
therefore :  you  arrived,  and  how  was  that  queen  of  beauty 
then  employed?  On  my  conscience,  thou  found'st  her 
stringing  of  orient  pearls,  or  embroidering  some  curious 
device  in  gold  for  me  her  captive  knight ;  was  it  not  so, 
my  Sancho?"  —  "No,  faith,"  answered  the  squire,  "I 
found  her  winnowing  a  parcel  of  wheat  very  seriously 
in  the  back  yard."  —  "Then,"  said  the  Don,  "  you  may 
rest  assured  that  every  corn  of  that  wheat  was  a  grain  of 
j>earl,  since  she  did  it  the  honor  of  touching  it  with  her 
divine  hand.  Didst  thou  observe  the  quality  of  the 
wheat,  was  it  not  of  the  finest  sort?"  —  "Very  indif- 
ferent, I  thought,"  said  the  squire.  —  "Well,  this,  at 
least,  you  must  allow;  it  must  make  the  finest  whitest 
bread,  if  sifted  by  her  white  hands.  But  go  on ;  when 
you  delivered  my  letter,  did  she  kiss  it  ?  Did  she  treas- 
ure it  in  her  bosom,  or  what  ceremony  did  she  use  worthy 
such  a  letter  ?  How  did  she  behave  herself  ? "  —  "Why, 
trxily,  sir,"  answered  Sancho,  "when  I  offered  her  the 
184 


Odd  Companions 

letter,  she  was  very  busy  handling  her  sieve;  'and, 
pr'ythee,  honest  friend,'  said  she,  'do  so  much  as  lay 
that  letter  down  upon  that  sack  there ;  I  cannot  read  it 
till  I  have  winnowed  out  what  is  in  my  hands.'"  —  "O 
unparalleled  discretion  !"  cried  Don  Quixote;  "she  knew 
that  a  perusal  required  leisure,  and  therefore  deferred  it, 
for  her  more  pleasing  and  private  hours.  But  oh  !  my 
squire,  while  she  was  thus  employed,  what  conference 
passed  ?  What  did  she  ask  about  her  knight,  and  what 
did  you  reply?  Say  all,  say  all,  my  dearest  Sancho, 
let  not  the  smallest  circumstance  scape  the  tongue; 
speak  all  that  thought  can  frame,  or  pen  describe."  — 
"Her  questions  were  easily  answered,  sir,"  said  Sancho, 
"  for  she  asked  me  none  at  aU :  I  told  her,  indeed,  in  what 
a  sad  pickle  I  had  left  you  for  her  sake,  naked  to  the 
waist ;  that  you  ate  and  slept  like  the  brute  beasts ; 
that  you  would  let  a  razor  as  soon  touch  your  throat  as 
your  beard ;  that  you  were  still  blubbering  and  crying, 
or  swearing  and  cursing  your  fortune."  —  "There  you 
mistook,"  replied  Don  Quixote.  "I  rather  bless  my 
fortune,  and  always  shall,  while  life  affords  me  breath, 
since  I  am  thought  to  merit  the  esteem  of  so  high  a  lady 
as  Dulcinea  del  Toboso."  —  "There  you  hit  it,"  said 
Sancho;  "she  is  a  high  lady,  indeed,  sir,  for  she  is  taller 
than  I  am  by  half  a  foot."  —  "Why,  how  now,  Sancho," 
said  the  knight,  "hast  thou  measured  with  her?"  — 
"Ah,  marry  did  I,  sir,"  said  the  squire;  "for  you  must 
know  that  she  desired  me  to  lend  her  a  hand  in  lifting  a 
sack  of  wheat  on  an  ass ;  so  we  buckled  about  it,  and  I 
came  so  close  to  her,  that  I  found  she  was  taller  than  I 
by  a  full  span  at  least."  —  "Right,"  answered  Don 
Quixote:,  "but  thou  art  also  conscious  that  the  uncom- 
I8S 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

mon  stature  of  her  person  is  adorned  with  innumerable 
graces  and  endowments  of  soul.  But,  Sancho,  when  you 
approached  near  to  her  did  not  an  aromatic  smell  strike 
thy  sense,  a  scent  so  odoriferous,  pleasing,  and  sweet, 
that  I  want  a  name  for  it ;  sweet  as  —  you  understand 
me,  as  the  richest  fragrancy  diffused  around  a  perfumer's 
magazine  of  odors  ?  This,  at  least,  you  must  grant  me." 
—  "I  did  indeed  feel  a  sort  of  scent  a  little  unsavory," 
said  Sancho,  "somewhat  vigorous  or  so;  for  I  suppose 
she  had  wrought  hard,  and  sweated  somewhat."  — 
"It  is  false,"  answered  the  knight,  "thy  smelling  has  been 
debauched  by  thy  own  scent,  or  some  canker  in  thy  nose : 
if  thou  could'st  tell  the  scent  of  opening  roses,  fragrant 
lilies,  or  the  choicest  amber,  then  thou  might'st  guess  at 
hers."  —  "Cry  mercy,  sir,"  said  Sancho;  "it  may  be 
so  indeed,  for  I  remember  that  I  myself  have  smelt  very 
oft  just  as  Madam  Dulcinea  did  then ;  and  it  is  no  such 
wondrous  thing  neither  that  one  devil  should  be  like 
another." 

"But  now,"  said  the  knight,  "supposing  the  corn  win- 
nowed and  despatched  to  the  mill,  what  did  she  after  she 
had  read  my  letter?"  —  "Your  letter,  sir,"  answered 
Sancho,  "your  letter  was  not  read  at  all,  sir;  as  for  her 
part,  she  said,  she  could  neither  read  nor  write,  and  she 
would  trust  nobody  else,  lest  they  should  tell  tales,  and 
so  she  cunningly  tore  your  letter.  She  said,  that  what  I 
told  her  by  word  of  mouth  of  your  love  and  penance  was 
enough :  to  make  short  now,  she  gave  her  service  to  you, 
and  said  she  had  rather  see  you  than  hear  from  you ; 
and  she  prayed  you,  if  ever  you  loved  her,  upon  sight  of 
me,  forthwith  to  leave  your  madness  among  the  bushes 
here,  and  come  straight  to  Toboso  (if  you  be  at  leisure), 
i86 


Odd  Companions 

for  she  has  something  to  say  to  you,  and  has  a  huge 
mind  to  see  you :  she  had  Hke  to  burst  with  laughing, 
when  I  called  you  the  Knight  of  the  Doleful  Countenance. 
She  told  me  the  Biscayan  whom  you  mauled  so  was 
there,  and  that  he  was  a  very  honest  fellow;  but  that 
she  heard  no  news  at  all  of  the  galley-slaves." 

"Thus  far  all  goes  well,"  said  Don  Quixote;  "but 
tell  me,  pray,  what  jewel  did  she  present  you  at  your 
departure,  as  a  reward  for  the  news  you  brought?  for 
it  is  a  custom  of  ancient  standing  among  knights  and 
ladies  errant,  to  bestow  on  squires,  dwarfs,  or  damsels, 
who  bring  them  good  news  of  their  ladies  or  servants, 
some  precious  jewel  as  a  grateful  reward  of  their  welcome 
tidings." — "Ah!  sir,"  said  Sancho,  "that  was  the 
fashion  in  the  days  of  yore,  and  a  very  good  fashion, 
I  take  it :  but  all  the  jewels  Sancho  got  was  a  luncheon 
of  bread  and  a  piece  of  cheese,  which  she  handed  to  me 
over  the  wall,  when  I  was  taking  my  leave,  by  the  same 
token  (I  hope  there's  no  ill  luck  in  it),  the  cheese  was 
made  of  sheep's  milk."  —  "It  is  strange,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  "  for  she  is  liberal,  even  to  profuseness ;  and  if 
she  presented  thee  not  a  jewel,  she  had  certainly  none 
about  her  at  that  time ;  but  what  is  deferred  is  not  lost, 
sleeves  are  good  after  Easter.  I  shall  see  her,  and  matters 
shall  be  accommodated."  Cervantes. 

Jennie  Wren  and  Riah  the  Jew      <:><::>      ■<ci. 

A  PARLOR  door  within  a  small  entry  stood  open,  and 
'^*-  disclosed  a  child  —  dwarf  —  a  girl  —  a  something 
—  sitting  on  a  little  low  old-fashioned  arm-chair,  which 
had  a  kind  of  httle  working  bench  before  it.  .  .  .  "I 
can't  get  up,"  said  the  child,  "because  my  back's  bad, 
187 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

and  my  legs  are  queer.  But  I'm  the  person  of  the  house." 
...  It  was  difficult  to  guess  the  age  of  this  strange 
creature,  for  her  poor  figure  furnished  no  clue  to  it,  and 
her  face  was  at  once  so  young  and  so  old.  Twelve,  or 
at  the  most  thirteen,  might  be  near  the  mark.  .  .  . 

In  the  evening  of  this  same  foggy  day  when  the  yellow 
window-bUnd  of  Pubsey  and  Co.  was  drawn  down  upon 
the  day's  work,  Riah  the  Jew  once  more  came  forth  into 
St.  Mary  Axe.  But  this  time  he  carried  no  bag,  and 
was  not  bound  on  his  master's  affairs.  He  passed  over 
London  Bridge,  and  returned  to  the  Middlesex  shore  by 
that  of  Westminster,  and  so,  ever  wading  through  the  fog, 
waded  to  the  doorstep  of  the  doll's  dressmaker. 

Miss  Wren  expected  him.  He  could  see  her  through 
the  window  by  the  light  of  her  low  fire  —  carefully  banked 
up  with  damp  cinders  that  it  might  last  the  longer  and 
waste  the  less  when  she  went  out  —  sitting  waiting  for 
him  in  her  bonnet.  His  tap  at  the  glass  roused  her  from 
the  musing  solitude  in  which  she  sat,  and  she  came  to 
the  door  to  open  it ;  aiding  her  steps  with  a  Uttle  crutch- 
stick. 

"  Good  evening,  godmother ! "  said  Miss  Jenny  Wren. 

The  old  man  laughed,  and  gave  her  his  arm  to  lean  on. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  warm  yourself,  godmother?" 
asked  Miss  Jenny  Wren. 

"Not  if  you  are  ready,  Cinderella,  my  dear." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Miss  Wren,  delighted.  "Now 
you  are  a  clever  old  boy !  If  we  gave  prizes  at  this 
establishment  (but  we  only  keep  blanks)  you  should 
have  the  first  silver  medal,  for  taking  me  up  so  quick." 
As  she  spake  thus,  Miss  Wren  removed  the  key  of  the 
house-door  from  the  keyhole  and  put  it  in  her  pocket,  and 
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Odd  Companions 

then  bustlingly  closed  the  door,  and  tried  it  as  they  both 
stood  on  the  step.  Satisfied  that  her  dwelling  was  safe,  she 
drew  one  hand  through  the  old  man's  arm  and  prepared 
to  ply  her  crutch-stick  with  the  other.  But  the  key 
was  an  instrument  of  such  gigantic  proportions,  that  be- 
fore they  started  Riah  proposed  to  carry  it. 

"No,  no,  no!  I'll  carry  it  myself,"  returned  Miss 
Wren.  "I'm  awfully  lopsided,  you  know,  and  stowed 
down  in  my  pocket  it'U  trim  the  ship.  To  let  you  into  a 
secret,  godmother,  I  wear  my  pocket  on  my  high  side,  o' 
purpose." 

With  that  they  began  their  plodding  through  the  fog. 

"Yes,  it  was  truly  sharp  of  you,  godmother,"  resumed 
Miss  Wren  with  great  approbation,  "to  understand  me. 
But,  you  see,  you  are  so  like  the  fairy  godmother  in  the 
bright  little  books !  You  look  so  urdike  the  rest  of 
people,  and  so  much  as  if  you  had  changed  yourself  into 
that  shape,  just  this  moment,  with  some  benevolent  ob- 
ject. Boh !"  cried  Miss  Jenny,  putting  her  face  close  to 
the  old  man's.  "I  can  see  your  features,  godmother, 
behind  the  beard." 

"Does  the  fancy  go  to  my  changing  other  objects  too, 
Jenny?" 

"Ah  !  That  it  does !  If  you'd  only  borrow  my  stick 
and  tap  this  piece  of  pavement  —  this  dirty  stone  that  my 
foot  taps  —  it  would  start  up  a  coach  and  six.  I  say ! 
Let's  believe  so !" 

"With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  good  old  man. 

"And  I'll  tell  you  what  I  must  ask  you  to  do,  god- 
mother. I  must  ask  you  to  be  so  kind  as  give  my  child 
a  tap  and  change  him  altogether.  Oh,  my  child  has  been 
such  a  bad,  bad  child  of  late  !  It  worries  me  nearly  out  of 
189 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

my  wits.  Not  done  a  stroke  of  work  these  ten  days. 
Has  had  the  horrors,  too,  and  fancied  that  four  copper- 
colored  men  in  red  wanted  to  throw  him  into  a  fiery 
furnace." 

"  But  that's  dangerous,  Jenny  ?  " 

"Dangerous,  godmother?  My  bad  child  is  always 
dangerous,  more  or  less.  He  might" — here  the  little 
creature  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder  at  the  sky  —  "be 
setting  the  house  on  fire  at  this  present  moment.  I  don't 
know  who  would  have  a  child,  for  my  part!  It's  no  use 
shaking  him.  I  have  shaken  him  till  I  have  made  myself 
giddy.  'Why  don't  you  mind  your  commandments  and 
honor  your  parent,  you  naughty  old  boy?'  I  said  to 
him  all  the  time.  But  he  only  whimpered  and  stared  at 
me. 

"What  shall  be  changed,  after  him  ?"  asked  Riah  in  a 
compassionately  playful  voice. 

"Upon  my  word,  godmother,  I  am  afraid  I  must  be 
selfish  next,  and  get  you  to  set  me  right  in  the  back  and 
the  legs.  It's  a  httle  thing  to  you  with  your  power, 
godmother,  but  it's  a  great  deal  to  poor  weak  aching 
me." 

There  was  no  querulous  complaining  in  the  words,  but 
they  were  not  the  less  touching  for  that. 

"And  then?" 

"Yes,  and  then  —  you  know,  godmother.  We'll  both 
jump  into  the  coach  and  six  and  go  to  Lizzie.  This  re- 
minds me,  godmother,  to  ask  you  a  serious  question. 
You  are  as  wise  as  wise  can  be  (having  been  brought 
up  by  the  fairies),  and  you  can  tell  me  this:  Is  it  better 
to  have  had  a  good  thing  and  lost  it,  or  never  to  have  had 
it?" 

190 


Odd  Companions 

"Explain,  goddaughter." 

"I  feel  so  much  more  solitary  and  helpless  without 
Lizzie  now,  than  I  used  to  feel  before  I  knew  her."  (Tears 
were  in  her  eyes  as  she  said  so.) 

"  Some  beloved  companionship  fades  out  of  most  lives, 
my  dear,"  said  the  Jew,  —  "that  of  a  wife,  and  a  fair 
daughter,  and  a  son  of  promise,  has  faded  out  of  my  own 
life  —  but  the  happiness  was." 

I  "Ah!"  said  Miss  Wren,  thoughtfully,  by  no  means 
convinced,  and  chopping  the  exclamation  with  that  sharp 
little  hatchet  of  hers;  "then  I  tell  you  what  change  I 
think  you  had  better  begin  with,  godmother.  You  had 
better  change  Is  into  Was  and  Was  into  Is,  and  keep 
them  so." 

"  Would  that  suit  your  case?  Would  you  not  be  always 
in  pain  then?"   asked  the  old  man,  tenderly. 

"Right!"  exclaimed  Miss  Wren  with  another  chop. 
"You  have  changed  me  wiser,  godmother.  —  Not,"  she 
added  with  the  quaint  hitch  of  her  chin  and  eyes,  "  that 
you  need  be  a  very  wonderfvd  godmother  to  do  that 
deed." 

Charles  Dickens 

A  Genius  for  Friendship    -;:>    "c^.    ^o    <:>..    -o 

/^EORGE  DYER,  Martin  Bumey,  Jem  White,  Thomas 
^-^  Manning,  William  Ayrton  —  what  an  interesting 
company  of  eccentrics  they  form ;  and  we  should  hardly 
have  known  them  at  all  had  we  not  met  them  at  Lamb's 
hospitable  bachelor  table.  And  besides  them  there  is  a 
goodly  company  of  friends  not  unknown  to  fame,  Haz- 
litt,  Procter,  Crabb  Robinson,  Tom  Hood,  Cowden 
Clark,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  the  rest.  To  say  truth.  Lamb 
191 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

had  a  genius  for  friendship.  He  could  discover  some- 
thing amiable  in  everybody.  He  drew  about  him  men 
who  were  polar  opf)Osites  in  temperament  and  bitterly 
antagonistic  in  opinion;  men  like  Godwin  and  Words- 
worth, Hunt  and  Southey,  who  would  never  have  given  a 
hand  to  each  other  save  on  the  common  ground  of  their 
friendship  for  Lamb.  He  stoutly  defended  them  to  each 
other,  and  appreciated  whatever  was  genuine  and  human 
in  them  all.  He  made  free  with  their  foUies,  quizzed 
them  on  their  fads  or  peculiarities  with  an  impudence 
that  might  have  been  intolerable  in  any  one  else. 
"M-martin,"  he  stammered  out  over  the  whist  table 
to  Burney,  "if  d-dirt  were  trumps,  what  a  hand  you'd 
hold  ! "  When  Coleridge  talked  a  stricken  hour,  wrapped 
in  a  cloud  of  lofty  metaphysic.  Lamb  only  remarked  dryly, 
"Coleridge  is  so  full  of  his  fun!"  But  no  one  took 
offence.  Indeed,  no  one  could  be  more  quick  than  Lamb 
himself  to  perceive,  or  more  careful  to  avoid,  anything 
that  might  woimd  the  feelings  of  others.  Men  who,  like 
HazUtt,  quarrelled  with  everybody  else,  never  could  quar- 
rel with  him.  It  was  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  and  one 
may  say  only  they,  that  could  keep  the  friendship  of 
William  Hazlitt  and  Sarah  Stoddard,  not  only  before 
their  ill-assorted  marriage,  —  at  which  ceremony  Lamb 
confessed  he  was  convulsed  with  mistimed  laughter,  — 
but  when,  in  the  later  days,  they  were  separated  from 
each  other  and  from  everybody  else.  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb  would  cherish  no  resentment  for  any  slight,  or 
misunderstanding,  or  desertion.  When  Hazlitt  lay  in  his 
last  illness  alone  and  unbefriended,  it  was  Lamb  who 
hastened  to  visit  him,  stood  by  his  bedside,  and  held  the 
hand  of  the  dying  man  to  the  end. 
192 


Odd  Companions 

But  it  should  be  remembered  that  Lamb's  best  and 
closest  friends  were  precisely  the  best  and  greatest  men  of 
his  time.  He  was  surrounded  by  an  oddly  assorted  com- 
pany on  the  Wednesday  evenings ;  but  he  kept  his  closest 
intimacy  for  two  or  three  —  for  Coleridge  and  the  Words- 
worths.  There  are  few  letters  in  the  language  like  those 
of  Lamb  to  the  Wordsworths,  so  full  of  mingled  humor 
and  pathos,  of  the  most  dehcate  sympathies.  These 
people  really  knew  each  other  —  which  is  too  uncommon 
a  thing  in  this  world.  And  this  is  Lamb's  last  letter  to 
Coleridge,  written  probably,  as  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell 
suggests,  to  remove  some  mistaken,  sick  man's  fancy:  — 

"  My  dear  Coleridge,  —  Not  one  unkind  thought  has 
passed  in  my  brain  about  you.  ...  If  you  ever  thought 
an  offence,  much  more  wrote  it  against  me,  it  must  have 
been  in  the  times  of  Noah,  and  the  great  waters  swept  it 
away.  Mary's  most  kind  love,  and  maybe  a  wrong 
prophet  of  your  bodings  !  —  here  she  is  crying  for  mere 
love  over  your  letter.  I  wring  out  less,  but  not  sincerer, 
showers." 

Two  years  later,  Coleridge,  at  the  end  of  his  weary  ill- 
ness, turning  over  the  pages  of  his  early  poems,  comes  upon 
that  one,  "  The  Lime-Tree  Bower  My  Prison,"  written 
during  the  visit  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  to  Nether 
Stowey,  so  long  ago,  when  they  were  all  young  and  happy ; 
and  he  writes  under  it:  "Ch.  and  Mary  Lamb  —  dear 
to  my  heart,  yea,  as  it  were  my  heart.  S.  T.  C.  JS.\..  63, 
1834.  1797-1834,  37  years  !"  When  he  died,  Lamb  went 
broken-hearted,  murmuring  to  himself,  "Coleridge  is 
dead,  Coleridge  is  dead ! "  In  almost  his  last  recorded 
lines  he  writes:  "His  great  and  dear  spirit  haunts  me. 
I  cannot  make  a  criticism  on  men  and  books  without  an 
o  193 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

ineffectual  turning  and  reference  to  him."  And  a  few 
days  later  he  followed  his  old  familiar  friend.  I  say  it 
warms  the  heart  to  think  of  such  a  friendship  as  this,  and 
makes  us  deem  more  nobly  of  human  nature.  Thomas 
Carlyle,  seeing  Lamb  in  those  last  years,  notes  in  him 
"insuperable  proclivity  to  gin" ;  judges  there  is  "a  most 
slender  fibre  of  actual  worth  in  that  poor  Charles." 
William  Wordsworth,  writing  a  few  months  after  Lamb 
had  gone,  cries  out  — 

"O  he  was  good,  if  e'er  a  good  man  lived ! " 

So  blindly  may  the  jaundiced  cynic  misinterpret  the  man 
whom  the  wise  poet  understands. 

C.  T.  Winchester 

The  Rommany  Rye  and  the  Gypsy  Lad  ^^>  ^=^ 

T  WANDERED  along  the  heath,  till  I  came  to  a 
-•■  place  where,  beside  a  thick  furze,  sat  a  man,  his 
eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  red  ball  of  the  setting  sun. 

"That*s  not  you,  Jasper  ?  " 

"Indeed,  brother!" 

"I've  not  seen  you  for  years." 

"How  should  you,  brother?" 

"What  brings  you  here?" 

"The  fight,  brother." 

"Where  are  the  tents?" 

"On  the  old  spot,  brother." 

"Any  news  since  we  parted  ?" 

"Two  deaths,  brother." 

"Who  are  dead,  Jasper?" 

"  Father  and  mother,  brother." 

"Where  did  they  die?" 

194 


Odd  Companions 

"Where  they  were  sent,  brother." 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  death,  Mr.  Petulengro?" 
said  I,  as  I  sat  down  beside  him. 

"My  opinion  of  death,  brother,  is  much  the  same  as 
that  in  the  old  song  of  Pharaoh,  which  I  have  heard  my 
grandam  sing :  — 

" '  Cana  marel  o  nanus  chivios  and€  pew, 
Ta  rovel  pa  leste  o  chavor  ta  romi.' 

When  a  man  dies,  he  is  cast  into  the  earth,  and  his  wife 
and  child  sorrow  over  him.  If  he  has  neither  wife  nor 
child,  then  his  father  and  mother,  I  suppose ;  and  if  he 
is  quite  alone  in  the  world,  why,  then  he  is  cast  into  the 
earth,  and  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  is  the  end  of  a  man  ?  " 

"There's  an  end  of  him,  brother,  more's  the  pity." 

"  Why  do  you  say  so  ?  " 

"Life  is  sweet,  brother." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Think  so !  There's  night  and  day,  brother,  both 
sweet  things ;  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  brother,  all  sweet 
things ;  there's  likewise  the  wind  on  the  heath.  Life 
is  very  sweet,  brother  ;  who  would  wish  to  die  ?  " 

"I  would  wish  to  die  — " 

"You  talk  like  a  gorgio  —  which  is  the  same  as  talking 
like  a  fool  —  were  you  a  Rommany  Chal,  you  would  talk 
wiser.  Wish  to  die,  indeed  I  A  Rommany  Chal  would 
wish  to  live  forever  ! " 

"In  sickness,  Jasper?" 

"There's  the  sun  and  stars,  brother." 

"In  bhndness,  Jasper?" 

"There's  the  wind  on  the  heath,  brother;   if  I  could 

195 


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only  feel  that,  I  would  gladly  live  forever.  Dosta,  we'll 
now  go  to  the  tents  and  put  on  the  gloves ;  and  I'll  try 
to  make  you  feel  what  a  sweet  thing  it  is  to  be  alive, 
brother!" 

And,  as  I  wandered  along  the  green,  I  drew  near  to 
a  place  where  several  men,  with  a  cask  beside  them,  sat 
carousing  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  small  tent.  "Here  he 
comes,"  said  one  of  them,  as  I  advanced,  and  standing 
up  he  raised  his  voice  and  sang  :  — 

"  Here  the  gypsy  gemman  see, 
With  his  Roman  jib  and  his  rome  and  dree  — 
Rome  and  dree,  rum  and  dry 
Rally  round  the  Rommany  Rye." 

It  was  Mr.  Petulengro,  who  was  here  diverting  him- 
self with  several  of  his  comrades ;  they  all  received  me 
with  considerable  frankness.  "Sit  down,  brother," 
said  Mr.  Petulengro,  "and  take  a  cup  of  good  ale." 

I  sat  down.  "Your  health,  gentlemen,"  said  I,  as  I 
took  the  cup  which  Mr.  Petulengro  handed  to  me. 

"  Aukko  tu  pios  adrey  Rommanis.  Here  is  your  health 
in  Rommany,  brother,"  and  Mr.  Petulengro,  having 
refilled  the  cup,  now  emptied  it  at  a  draught. 

"Your  health  in  Rommany,  brother,"  said  Tawno 
Chikno,  to  whom  the  cup  came  next. 

"The  Rommany  Rye,"  said  a  third. 

"The  Gypsy  gentleman,"  exclaimed  a  fourth,  drinking. 

And  then  they  all  sang  in  chorus  :  — 

"  Here  the  Gypsy  gemman  see, 
With  his  Roman  jib  and  his  rome  and  dree — 
Rome  and  dree,  rum  and  dry 
Rally  round  the  Rommany  Rye." 
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Odd  Companions 

"And  now,  brother,"  said  Mr.  Petulengro,  "seeing 
that  you  have  drunk  and  been  drunken,  you  will  perhaps 
tell  us  where  you  have  been,  and  what  about  ?  " 

"I  have  been  in  the  Big  City,"  said  I,  "writing  lils." 

"How  much  money  have  you  got  in  your  pocket, 
brother?"  said  Mr.  Petulengro. 

"Eighteen  pence,"  said  I ;  "all  I  have  in  the  world." 

"I  have  been  in  the  Big  City,  too,"  said  Mr.  Petu- 
lengro ;  "  but  I  have  not  written  lils  —  I  have  fought  in 
the  ring  —  I  have  fifty  pounds  in  my  pocket  —  I  have 
much  more  in  the  world.  Brother,  there  is  considerable 
difiference  between  us." 

"I  would  rather  be  the  lil-writer,  after  all,"  said  the  tall, 
handsome,  black  man;  "indeed,  I  would  wish  for  noth- 
ing better." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  said  Mr.  Petulengro. 

"Because  they  have  so  much  to  say  for  themselves,'* 
said  the  black  man,  "even  when  dead  and  gone.  When 
they  are  laid  in  the  churchyard,  it  is  their  own  fault  if 
people  a'n't  talking  of  them.  Who  will  know,  after  I  am 
dead,  or  bitchadey  pawdel,  that  I  was  once  the  beauty  of 
the  world,  or  that  you,  Jasper,  were  — " 

"The  best  man  in  England  of  my  inches.  That's  true, 
Tawno  —  however,  here's  our  brother  will  perhaps  let 
the  world  know  something  about  us." 

"Not  he,"  said  the  other,  with  a  sigh  ;  "he'll  have  quite 
enough  to  do  in  writing  his  own  lils,  and  telling  the  world 
how  handsome  and  clever  he  was ;  and  who  can  blame 
him  ?  Not  I.  If  I  could  write  his,  every  word  should  be 
about  myself  and  my  own  tacho  Rommanis  —  my  own 
lawful  wedded  wife,  which  is  the  same  thing.  I  tell  you 
what,  brother,  I  once  heard  a  wise  man  say  in  Brum- 
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magem,  that  'there  is  nothing  like  blowing  one's  own 
horn,'  which  I  conceive  to  be  much  the  same  thing  as 
writing  one's  own  HI." 

After  a  little  more  conversation,  Mr.  Petulengro  arose, 
and  motioned  me  to  follow  him.  "Only  eighteen  pence 
in  the  world,  brother  !"  said  he,  as  we  walked  together. 

"Nothing  more,  I  assure  you.  How  came  you  to 
ask  me  how  much  money  I  had  ?  " 

"Because  there  was  something  in  your  look,  brother, 
something  very  much  resembling  that  which  a  person 
showeth  who  does  not  carry  much  money  in  his  pocket. 
I  was  looking  at  my  own  face  this  morning  in  my  wife's 
looking-glass  —  I  did  not  look  as  you  do,  brother." 

"I  believe  your  sole  motive  for  inquiring,"  said  I, 
"was  to  have  an  opportunity  of  venting  a  foolish  boast, 
and  to  let  me  know  that  you  were  in  possession  of  fifty 
pounds." 

"What  is  the  use  of  having  money  unless  you  let  people 
know  you  have  it?"  said  Mr.  Petulengro.  "It  is  not 
every  one  can  read  faces,  brother ;  and  unless  you  knew 
I  had  money,  how  could  you  ask  me  to  lend  you  any  ?  " 

"I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  to  lend  me  any." 

"Then  you  may  have  it  without  asking  ;  as  I  said  be- 
fore, I  have  fifty  pounds,  all  lawfully  earnt  money,  got 
by  fighting  in  the  ring  —  I  will  lend  you  that,  brother." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  I;  "but  I  will  not  take  it." 

"Then  the  half  of  it?" 

"Nor  the  half  of  it ;  but  it  is  getting  towards  evening; 
I  must  go  back  to  the  Great  City." 

"And  what  will  you  do  in  the  Boro  Foros?" 

"I  know  not,"  said  I. 

"Earn  money?" 

198 


Odd  Companions 

"n  I  can." 

"And  if  you  can't?" 

"Starve!" 

"  You  look  ill,  brother,"  said  Mr.  Petulengro. 

"I  do  not  feel  well ;  the  Great  City  does  not  agree  with 
me.  Should  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to  earn  some  money,  I 
would  leave  the  Big  City,  and  take  to  the  woods  and 
fields." 

"You  may  do  that,  brcther,"  said  Mr.  Petulengro, 
"whether  you  have  money  o-  not.  Our  tents  and  horses 
are  on  the  other  side  of  yonder  wooded  hill;  come  and 
stay  with  us ;  we  shall  all  be  glad  of  your  company,  but 
more  especially  myself  and  my  wife  Pakomovna." 

"What  hill  is  that?"  I  demanded. 

And  then  Mr.  Petulengro  told  me  the  name  of  the  hill. 
"We  shall  stay  on  t'other  side  of  the  hill  a  fortnight," 
he  continued ;  "and  as  you  are  fond  of  HI  writing,  you 
may  employ  yourself  profitably  whilst  there.  You  can 
write  the  lil  of  him  whose  dook  gallops  down  that  hill 
every  night,  even  as  the  living  man  was  wont  to  do  long 
ago. 

"Who  was  he?"  I  demanded. 

"Jemmy  Abershaw,"  said  Mr.  Petulengro;  "one  of 
those  whom  we  call  Borodrom-engroes,  and  the  gorgios 
highwaymen.  I  once  heard  a  rye  say  that  the  life  of  that 
man  would  fetch  much  money  ;  so  come  to  the  other  side 
of  the  hill,  and  write  the  lil  in  the  tent  of  Jasper  and  his 
wife  Pakomovna." 

George  Borrow, 


199 


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Uncle  Toby  and  Corporal  Trim     -cry      '«::^      ^Ci.. 

TF  I  was  not  morally  sure  that  the  reader  must  be  out 
-■-  of  all  patience  for  my  uncle  Toby's  character,  —  I 
would  here  previously  have  convinced  him  that  there  is 
no  instrument  so  fit  to  draw  such  a  thing  with,  as  that 
which  I  have  pitched  upon. 

A  man  and  his  Hobby-Horse,  tho'  I  cannot  say  that 
they  act  and  react  exactly  after  the  same  manner  in 
which  the  soul  and  body  dc  ^pon  each  other  :  Yet  doubt- 
less there  is  a  communication  between  them  of  some  kind  ; 
and  my  opinion  rather  is,  that  there  is  something  in  it 
more  of  the  manner  of  electrified  bodies,  —  and  that,  by 
means  of  the  heated  parts  of  the  rider,  which  come  im- 
mediately into  contact  with  the  back  of  the  Hobby- 
Horse,  —  by  long  journeys  and  much  friction,  it  so 
happens,  that  the  body  of  the  rider  is  at  length  filled  as 
full  of  Hobby-Horsical  matter  as  it  can  hold ;  —  so  that 
if  you  are  able  to  give  but  a  clear  description  of  the  nature 
of  the  one,  you  may  form  a  pretty  exact  notion  of  the 
genius  and  character  of  the  other. 

Now  the  Hobby-Horse  which  my  uncle  Toby  always 
rode  upon  was  in  my  opinion  an  Hobby-Horse  well  worth 
giving  a  description  of,  if  it  was  only  upon  the  score  of 
his  great  singularity ;  —  for  you  might  have  travelled 
from  York  to  Dover,  —  from  Dover  to  Penzance  in 
Cornwall,  and  Penzance  to  York  back  again,  and  not 
have  seen  such  another  upon  the  road  ;  or  if  you  had  seen 
such  a  one,  whatever  haste  you  had  been  in,  you  must 
infallibly  have  stopped  to  have  taken  a  view  of  him. 
Indeed,  the  gait  and  figure  of  him  was  so  strange,  and  so 
utterly  imlike  was  he,  from  head  to  his  tail,  to  any  one 
200 


Odd  Companions 

of  the  whole  species,  that  it  was  now  and  then  made  a 
matter  of  dispute,  —  whether  he  was  really  a  Hobby- 
Horse  or  no ;  but  as  the  Philosopher  would  use  no  other 
argument  to  the  Sceptic,  who  disputed  with  him  against 
the  reality  of  motion,  save  that  of  rising  up  upon  his  legs, 
and  walking  across  the  room ;  —  so  would  my  uncle 
Toby  use  no  other  argument  to  prove  his  Hobby-Horse 
was  a  Hobby-Horse  indeed,  but  by  getting  upon  his  back 
and  riding  him  about ;  —  leaving  the  world,  after  that,  to 
determine  the  point  as  it  thought  fit. 

In  good  truth,  my  uncle  Toby  mounted  him  with  so 
much  pleasure,  and  he  carried  my  uncle  Toby  so  well,  — 
that  he  troubled  his  head  very  Uttle  with  what  the  world 
either  said  or  thought  about  it. 

It  is  now  high  time,  however,  that  I  give  you  a  de- 
scription of  him  :  —  But  to  go  on  regularly,  I  only  beg  you 
will  give  me  leave  to  acquaint  you  first,  how  my  uncle 
Toby  came  by  him.  .  .  . 

The  history  of  a  soldier's  wound  beguiles  the  pain  of 
it ;  —  my  uncle's  visitors  at  least  thought  so,  and  in  their 
daily  calls  upon  him,  from  the  courtesy  arising  out  of  that 
belief,  they  would  frequently  turn  the  discourse  to  that 
subject,  —  and  from  that  subject  the  discourse  would 
generally  roll  on  to  the  siege  itself. 

These  conversations  were  infinitely  kind ;  and  my 
uncle  Toby  received  great  relief  from  them,  and  would 
have  received  much  more,  but  that  they  brought  him 
into  some  unforeseen  perplexities,  which,  for  three  months 
together,  retarded  his  cure  greatly ;  and  if  he  had  not 
hit  upon  an  expedient  to  extricate  himself  out  of  them,  I 
verily  believe  they  would  have  laid  him  in  his  grave.  .  .  . 

I  must  remind  the  reader,  in  case  he  has  read  the  history 

20I 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

of  King  William's  wars,  —  but  if  he  has  not,  —  I  then 
inform  him,  that  one  of  the  most  memorable  attacks 
in  that  siege  was  that  which  was  made  by  the  English 
and  Dutch  upon  the  point  of  the  advanced  counterscarp, 
between  the  gate  of  St.  Nicolas,  which  enclosed  the  great 
sluice  or  water-stop,  where  the  English  were  terribly 
exposed  to  the  shot  of  the  counter-guard  and  demi- 
bastion  of  St.  Roch :  The  issue  of  which  hot  dispute, 
in  three  words,  was  this ;  That  the  Dutch  lodged  them- 
selves upon  the  counter-guard,  —  and  that  the  English 
made  themselves  masters  of  the  covered-way  before  St. 
Nicolas-gate,  notwithstanding  the  gallantry  of  the  French 
officers,  who  exposed  themselves  upon  the  glacis  sword 
in  hand. 

As  this  was  the  principal  attack  of  which  my  uncle 
Toby  was  an  eye-witness  at  Namur,  —  the  army  of  the 
besiegers  being  cut  off,  by  the  confluence  of  the  Maes 
and  Sambre,  from  seeing  much  of  each  other's  operations, 
—  my  uncle  Toby  was  generally  more  eloquent  and  par- 
ticular in  his  account  of  it ;  and  the  many  perplexities 
he  was  in,  arose  out  of  the  most  insurmountable  diffi- 
culties he  found  in  telling  his  story  intelligibly,  and  giving 
clear  ideas  of  the  differences  and  distinctions  between  the 
scarp  and  counterscarp,  —  the  glacis  and  covered-way,  — 
the  half-moon  and  ravelin,  —  as  to  make  his  company 
fully  comprehend  where  and  what  he  was  about. 

Writers  themselves  are  too  apt  to  confound  these 
terms ;  so  that  you  will  the  less  wonder,  if  in  his  endeav- 
ors to  explain  them,  and  in  opposition  to  many  mis- 
conceptions, that  my  uncle  Toby  did  oft-times  puzzle 
his  visitors,  and  sometimes  himself  too. 

To  speak  the  truth,  unless  the  company  my  father  led 
202 


Odd  Companions 

upstairs  were  tolerably  clear-headed,  or  my  uncle  Toby 
was  in  one  of  his  explanatory  moods,  'twas  a  difficult 
thing,  do  what  he  could,  to  keep  the  discourse  free  from 
obscurity. 

What  rendered  the  account  of  this  affair  the  more 
intricate  to  my  uncle  Toby,  was  this,  —  that  in  the  attack 
of  the  counterscarp,  before  the  gate  of  St.  Nicolas,  ex- 
tending- itself  from  the  bank  of  the  Maes,  quite  up  to  the 
great  water-stop,  —  the  ground  was  cut  and  cross  cut 
with  such  a  multitude  of  dykes,  drains,  rivulets,  and 
sluices,  on  all  sides,  —  and  he  would  get  so  sadly  bewil- 
dered, and  set  fast  amongst  them,  that  frequently  he  could 
neither  get  backwards  or  forwards  to  save  his  life ;  and 
was  oft-times  obliged  to  give  up  the  attack  upon  that  very 
account  only. 

These  perplexing  rebuffs  gave  my  uncle  Toby  Shandy 
more  perturbations  than  you  would  imagine :  and  as 
my  father's  kindness  to  him  was  continually  dragging  up 
fresh  friends  and  fresh  inquirers,  —  he  had  but  a  very 
imeasy  task  of  it. 

No  doubt  my  uncle  Toby  had  great  command  of  him- 
self, —  and  could  guard  appearances,  I  beUeve,  as  well 
as  most  men  ;  —  yet  any  one  may  imagine,  that  when  he 
could  not  retreat  out  of  the  ravelin  without  getting  into 
the  half-moon,  or  get  out  of  the  covered-way  without 
falUng  down  the  counterscarp,  nor  across  the  dyke  with- 
out danger  of  slipping  into  the  ditch,  but  that  he  must 
have  fretted  and  fumed  inwardly:  —  He  did  so;  —  and 
the  little  and  hourly  vexations,  which  may  seem  trifling 
and  of  no  account  to  the  man  who  has  not  read  Hip- 
pHJcrates,  yet,  whoever  has  read  Hippocrates,  or  Dr.  James 
Mackenzie,  and  has  considered  well  the  eflfects  which  the 
203 


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passions  and  affections  of  the  mind  have  upon  the  diges- 
tion —  (Why  not  of  a  wound  as  well  as  of  a  dinner  ?)  — 
may  easily  conceive  what  sharp  paroxysms  and  exacer- 
bations of  his  wound  my  uncle  Toby  must  have  under- 
gone upon  that  score  only. 

—  My  uncle  Toby  could  not  philosophize  upon  it ;  — 
'twas  enough  he  felt  it  was  so,  —  and  having  sustained 
the  sorrows  of  it  for  three  months  together,  he  .was  re- 
solved some  way  or  other  to  extricate  himself. 

He  was  one  morning  lying  upon  his  back  in  his  bed, 
the  anguish  and  nature  of  the  wound  upon  his  groin  suffer- 
ing him  to  he  in  no  other  position,  when  a  thought  came 
into  his  head,  that  if  he  could  purchase  such  a  thing,  and 
have  it  pasted  down  upon  a  board,  as  a  large  map  of  the 
fortification  of  the  town  and  citadel  of  Namur,  with  its 
environs,  it  might  be  a  means  of  giving  him  ease.  —  I 
take  notice  of  his  desire  to  have  the  environs  along  with 
the  town  and  citadel  for  this  reason,  —  because  my  uncle 
Toby's  wound  was  got  in  one  of  the  traverses,  about  thirty 
toises  from  the  returning  angle  of  the  trench,  opposite 
to  the  salient  angle  of  the  demi-bastion  of  St.  Roch :  — 
so  that  he  was  pretty  confident  he  could  stick  a  pin  upon 
the  identical  spot  of  ground  where  he  was  standing  on 
when  the  stone  struck  him. 

All  this  succeeded  to  his  wishes,  and  not  only  freed 
him  from  a  world  of  sad  explanations,  but,  in  the  end,  it 
proved  the  happy  means,  as  you  will  read,  of  procuring 
my  uncle  Toby  his  Hobby-Horse.  .  .  . 

The  table  in  my  uncle  Toby's  room,  —  being  somewhat 
of  the  smallest,  for  that  infinity  of  great  and  small  instru- 
ments of  knowledge  which  usually  lay  crowded  upon  it  — ■ 
he  had  the  accident,  in  reaching  over  for  his  tobacco-box, 
204 


Odd  Companions 

to  throw  down  his  compasses,  and  in  stooping  to  take  the 
compasses  up,  with  his  sleeve  he  threw  down  his  case  of 
instruments  and  snuffers ;  —  and  as  the  dice  took  a  run 
against  him,  in  his  endeavoring  to  catch  the  snuffers 
in  faUing,  —  he  thrust  Monsieur  Blondel  off  the  table, 
and  Count  de  Pagan  o'  top  of  him. 

'Twas  to  no  purpose  for  a  man,  lame  as  my  uncle  Toby 
was,  to  think  of  redressing  these  evils  by  himself,  —  he 
rung  his  bell  for  his  man  Trim  ;  —  Trim,  quoth  my  imcle 
Toby,  prithee  see  what  confusion  I  have  here  been  mak- 
ing —  I  must  have  some  better  contrivance.  Trim,  — 
Can'st  not  thou  take  my  rule,  and  measure  the  length  and 
breadth  of  this  table,  and  then  go  and  bespeak  me  one 
as  big  again  ?  —  Yes,  an'  please  your  Honor,  replied 
Trim,  making  a  bow ;  but  I  hope  your  Honor  will  be 
soon  well  enough  to  get  down  to  your  country  seat, 
where,  —  as  your  Honor  takes  so  much  pleasure  in 
fortification,  we  could  manage  this  matter  to  a  T. 

I  must  here  inform  you,  that  this  servant  of  my  uncle 
Toby's,  who  went  by  the  name  of  Trim,  had  been  a  cor- 
poral in  my  uncle's  own  company,  —  his  real  name  was 
James  Butler,  —  but  having  got  the  nickname  of  Trim 
in  the  regiment,  my  uncle  Toby,  unless  when  he  happened 
to  be  very  angry  with  him,  would  never  call  him  by  any 
other  name. 

The  poor  fellow  had  been  disabled  for  the  service,  by  a 
wound  on  his  left  knee  by  a  musket-bullet,  at  the  battle 
of  Landen,  which  was  two  years  before  the  affair  of 
Namur ;  —  and  as  the  fellow  was  well-beloved  in  the 
regiment,  and  a  handy  fellow  into  the  bargain,  n\y  uncle 
Toby  took  him  for  his  servant ;  and  of  an  excellent  use 
was  he,  attending  my  uncle  Toby  in  the  camp  and  in  his 
305 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

quarters  as  a  valet,  groom,  barber,  cook,  sempster,  and 
nurse ;  and  indeed,  from  first  to  last,  waited  upon  him 
and  served  him  with  great  fidelity  and  affection. 

My  uncle  Toby  loved  the  man  in  return,  and  what 
attached  him  more  to  him  still,  was  the  similitude  of  their 
knowledge.  —  For  Corporal  Trim  (for  so,  for  the  future 
I  shall  call  him)  by  four  years'  occasional  attention  to  his 
Master's  discourse  upon  fortified  towns,  and  the  advan- 
tage of  prying  and  peeping  continually  into  his  Master's 
plans,  etc.,  exclusive  and  besides  what  he  gained  Hobby- 
Horsically,  as  a  body-servant,  Non  Hobby  Horsical  per  se; 
—  had  become  no  mean  proficient  in  the  science ;  and 
was  thought,  by  the  cook  and  chamber-maid,  to  know  as 
much  of  the  nature  of  strongholds  as  my  uncle  Toby 
himself. 

I  have  but  one  more  stroke  to  give  to  finish  Corporal 
Trim's  character,  —  and  it  is  the  only  dark  line  in  it.  — 
The  fellow  loved  to  advise,  —  or  rather  to  hear  himself 
talk ;  his  carriage,  however,  was  so  perfectly  respectful, 
'twas  easy  to  keep  him  silent  when  you  had  him  so  ;  but 
set  his  tongue  a-going,  —  you  had  no  hold  of  him  —  he 
was  voluble  ;  —  the  eternal  interlardings  of  "your  Honor," 
with  the  respectfulness  of  Corporal  Trim's  manner,  inter- 
ceding so  strong  in  behalf  of  his  elocution,  —  that  though 
you  might  have  been  incommoded,  —  you  could  not  well 
be  angry.  My  uncle  Toby  was  seldom  either  the  one  or 
the  other  with  him,  —  or,  at  least,  this  fault,  in  Trim, 
broke  no  squares  with  them.  My  uncle  Toby,  as  I  said, 
loved  the  man  ;  —  and  besides,  as  he  ever  looked  upon  a 
faithful  servant,  —  but  as  an  humble  friend,  —  he  could 
not  bear  to  stop  his  mouth.  —  Such  was  Corporal  Trim. 

Laurence  Sterne 
206 


vm 

BOON   COMPANIONS 


S07 


BOON   COMPANIONS 


Colonel  Newcome  in  the  Cave  of 

Harmony 
The  Reel  of  TuUochgorum 
The  Men  of  Gotham 
A  Wayfaring  Song 
Sarah  Gamp  and  Betsey  Prig 
The  Club 
Aiild  Lang  Syne 


mm 


'T^HE  holy  passion  of  Friendship  is  of  so  sweet  and 

•*~    steady  and  loyal  and  enduring  a  nature  that  it  will 

last  through  a  whole  hfetime,  if  not  asked  to  lend  money. 

Samuel  L.  Clemens 


2IO 


Colonel  Newcome  in  the  Cave  of  Harmony      -c:^ 

*  I  "HERE  was  once  a  time  when  the  sun  used  to  shine 
■*■  brighter  than  it  appears  to  do  in  this  latter  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century;  when  the  zest  of  hfe  was  certainly 
keener ;  when  the  tavern  wines  seemed  to  be  delicious,  and 
tavern  dinners  the  perfection  of  cookery;  when  the  peru- 
sal of  novels  was  productive  of  immense  delight,  and  the 
monthly  advent  of  magazine-day  was  hailed  as  an  excit- 
ing holiday ;  when  to  know  Thompson,  who  had  written 
a  magazine  article,  was  an  honor  and  a  privilege ;  and 
to  see  Brown,  the  author  of  the  last  romance,  in  the  flesh, 
and  actually  walking  in  the  Park  with  his  umbrella  and 
Mrs.  Brown,  was  an  event  remarkable,  and  to  the  end 
of  life  to  be  perfectly  well  remembered ;  when  the  women 
of  this  world  were  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful  than 
those  of  the  present  time ;  and  the  houris  of  the  theatres 
especially  so  ravishing  and  angelic,  that  to  see  them  was  to 
set  the  heart  in  motion,  and  to  see  them  again  was  to 
struggle  for  half  an  hour  previously  at  the  door  of  the  pit ; 
when  tailors  called  at  a  man's  lodgings  to  dazzle  him  with 
cards  of  fancy-waistcoats ;  when  it  seemed  necessary  to 
purchase  a  grand  silver  dressing-case,  so  as  to  be  ready 
for  the  beard  which  was  not  yet  born  (as  yearling  brides 
provide  lace  caps,  and  work  rich  clothes  for  the  expected 
darling) ;  when  to  ride  in  the  Park  on  a  ten-shilling  hack 
seemed  to  be  the  height  of  fashionable  enjoyment,  and 
to  splash  your  college  tutor  as  you  were  driving  down 
Regent  Street  in  a  hired  cab  the  triumph  of  satire ;  when 
the  acme  of  pleasure  seemed  to  be  to  meet  Jones  of  Trinity 
211 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

at  the  Bedford,  and  to  make  an  arrangement  with  him,  and 
with  King  of  Corpus  (who  was  staying  at  the  Colonnade), 
and  Martin  of  Trinity  Hall  (who  was  with  his  family 
in  Bloomsbury  Square),  to  dine  at  the  Piazza,  go  to 
the  play  and  see  Braham  in  'Fra  Diavolo,"  and  end  the 
frolic  evening  by  partaking  of  supper  and  a  song  at  the 
"Cave  of  Harmony."  —  It  was  in  the  days  of  my  own 
youth,  then,  that  I  met  one  or  two  of  the  characters  who 
are  to  figure  in  this  history,  and  whom  I  must  ask  leave 
to  accompany  for  a  short  while,  and  until,  familiarized 
with  the  public,  they  can  make  their  own  way.  As  I  re- 
call them  the  roses  bloom  again,  and  the  nightingales  sing 
by  the  calm  Bendemeer. 

Going  to  the  play,  then,  and  to  the  pit,  as  was  the 
fashion  in  those  merry  days,  with  some  young  fellows 
of  my  own  age,  having  listened  delighted  to  the  most 
cheerful  and  brilliant  of  operas,  and  laughed  enthusias- 
tically at  the  farce,  we  became  naturally  hungry  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night,  and  a  desire  for  welsh-rabbits  and  good 
old  glee-singing  led  us  to  the  "Cave  of  Harmony,"  then 
kept  by  the  celebrated  Hoskins,  among  whose  friends  we 
were  proud  to  count. 

We  enjoyed  such  intimacy  with  Mr.  Hoskins  that  he 
never  failed  to  greet  us  with  a  kind  nod ;  and  John  the 
waiter  made  room  for  us  near  the  President  of  the  con- 
vivial meeting.  We  knew  the  three  admirable  glee- 
singers,  and  many  a  time  they  partook  of  brandy-and- 
water  at  our  expense.  One  of  us  gave  his  call  dinner  at 
Hoskins's,  and  a  merry  time  we  had  of  it.  Where  are  you, 
O  Hoskins,  bird  of  the  night  ?  Do  you  warble  your  songs 
by  Acheron,  or  troll  your  choruses  by  the  banks  of  black 
Avernus  ? 

212 


Boon  Companions 

The  goes  of  stout,  "The  Chough  and  Crow,"  the  welsh- 
rabbit,  "The  Red-Cross  Knight,"  the  hot  brandy-and- 
water  (the  brown,  the  strong!)  "The  Bloom  is  on  the 
Rye"  (the  bloom  isn't  on  the  rye  any  more  !)  —  the  song 
and  the  cup,  in  a  word,  passed  round  merrily;  and,  I 
daresay,  the  songs  and  bumpers  were  encored.  It 
happened  that  there  was  a  very  small  attendance  at  the 
"Cave"  that  night,  and  we  were  all  more  sociable  and 
friendly  because  the  company  was  select.  The  songs 
were  chiefly  of  the  sentimental  class;  such  ditties  were 
much  in  vogue  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak. 

There  came  into  the  "Cave  "  a  gentleman  with  a  lean 
brown  face  and  long  black  mustachios,  dressed  in  very 
loose  clothes,  and  evidently  a  stranger  to  the  place.  At 
least  he  had  not  visited  it  for  a  long  time.  He  was  point- 
ing out  changes  to  a  lad  who  was  in  his  company ;  and, 
calling  for  sherry-and-water,  he  listened  to  the  music,  and 
twirled  his  mustachios  with  great  enthusiasm. 

At  the  very  first  glimpse  of  me  the  boy  jumped  up  from 
the  table,  bounded  across  the  room,  ran  to  me  with  his 
hands  out,  and,  blushing,  said,  "Don't  you  know  me?" 

It  was  little  Newcome,  my  school-fellow,  whom  I  had 
not  seen  for  six  years,  grown  a  fine  tall  young  stripling 
now,  with  the  same  bright  blue  eyes  which  I  remembered 
when  he  was  quite  a  little  boy. 

"What  the  deuce  brings  you  here?"   said  I. 

He  laughed  and  looked  roguish.  "My  father  —  that's 
my  father  —  would  come.  He's  just  come  back  from 
India.  He  says  all  the  wits  used  to  come  here,  —  Mr. 
Sheridan,  Captain  Morris,  Colonel  Hanger,  Professor 
Porson.  I  told  him  your  name,  and  that  you  used  to  be 
very  kind  to  me  when  I  first  went  to  Smithfield.    I've 

213 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

left  now :  I'm  to  have  a  private  tutor.  I  say,  I've  got 
such  a  jolly  pony.    It's  better  fun  than  old  Smiffle." 

Here  the  whiskered  gentleman,  Newcome's  father, 
pKjinting  to  a  waiter  to  follow  him  with  his  glass  of  sherry- 
and-water,  strode  across  the  room  twirling  his  mustachios, 
and  came  up  to  the  table  where  we  sate,  making  a  saluta- 
tion with  his  hat  in  a  very  stately  and  pohte  manner,  so 
that  Hoskins  himself  was,  as  it  were,  obliged  to  bow; 
the  glee-singers  murmured  among  themselves  (their  eyes 
rolling  over  their  glasses  toward  one  another  as  they  sucked 
brandy-and-water) ,  and  that  mischievous  little  wag, 
little  Nadab  the  Improvisatore  (who  had  just  come  in), 
began  to  mimic  him,  feeling  his  imaginary  whiskers,  after 
the  manner  of  the  stranger,  and  flapping  about  his  pocket- 
handkerchief  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner.  Hoskins 
checked  this  ribaldry  by  sternly  looking  towards  Nadab 
and  at  the  same  time  calling  upon  the  gents  to  give  their 
orders,  the  waiter  being  in  the  room,  and  Mr.  BeUew 
about  to  sing  a  song. 

Newcome's  father  came  up  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
me.  I  daresay  I  blushed,  for  I  had  been  comparing  him 
to  the  admirable  Harley  in  the  Critic,  and  had  christened 
him  Don  Ferolo  Whiskerandos. 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  exceedingly  soft  and  pleasant,  and 
with  a  cordiahty  so  simple  and  sincere,  that  my  laughter 
shrank  away  ashamed ;  and  gave  place  to  a  feeUng  much 
more  respectful  and  friendly.  In  youth,  you  see,  one  is 
touched  by  kindness.  A  man  of  the  world  may,  of  course, 
be  grateful  or  not  as  he  chooses. 

"I  have  heard  of  your  kindness,  sir,"  says  he,  "to  my 
boy.  And  whoever  is  kind  to  him  is  kind  to  me.  Will 
y»u  allow  me  to  sit  down  by  you  ?  and  may  I  beg  you  to 
214 


Boon  Companions 

try  my  cheroots  ? "  We  were  friends  in  a  minute  — 
young  Newcome  snuggling  by  my  side,  his  father  oppo- 
site, to  whom,  after  a  minute  or  two  of  conversation,  I 
presented  my  three  college  friends. 

"You  have  come  here,  gentlemen,  to  see  the  wits," 
says  the  Colonel.  "Are  there  any  celebrated  persons  in 
the  room  ?  I  have  been  five-and- thirty  years  from  home, 
and  want  to  see  all  that  is  to  be  seen." 

King  of  Corpus  (who  was  an  incorrigible  wag)  was  on 
the  point  of  pulling  some  dreadful  long  bow,  and  pointing 
out  a  half-dozen  of  people  in  the  room,  as  Rogers,  and 
Hook,  and  Luttrel,  etc.,  the  most  celebrated  wits  of  that 
day ;  but  I  cut  King's  shins  under  the  table,  and  got  the 
fellow  to  hold  his  tongue. 

"Maxima  debetur  ptieris,"  says  Jones  (a  fellow  of  very 
kind  feeling,  who  has  gone  into  the  Church  since),  and, 
writing  on  his  card  to  Hoskins,  hinted  to  him  that  a  boy 
was  in  the  room,  and  a  gentleman  who  was  quite  a  green- 
horn: hence  that  the  songs  had  better  be  carefully  se- 
lected. 

And  so  they  were.  A  ladies'  school  might  have  come 
in,  and,  but  for  the  smell  of  the  cigars  and  brandy-and- 
water,  have  taken  no  harm  by  what  happened.  Why 
should  it  not  always  be  so  ?  If  there  are  any  "  Caves  of 
Harmony"  now,  I  warrant  Messieurs  the  landlords,  their 
interests  would  be  better  consulted  by  keeping  their 
singers  within  bounds.  The  very  greatest  scamps  like 
pretty  songs,  and  are  melted  by  them ;  so  are  honest 
people.  It  was  worth  a  guinea  to  see  the  simple  Colonel, 
and  his  delight  at  the  music.  .  .  . 

"I  say,  Clive,  this  is  delightful.  This  is  better  than 
your  aunt's  concert  with  all  the  Squallinis,  hey  ?    I  shall 

2IS 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

come  here  often.  Landlord,  may  I  venture  to  ask  those 
gentlemen  if  they  will  take  any  refreshment  ?  What  are 
their  names  ?  "  (to  one  of  his  neighbors) .  "I  was  scarcely 
allowed  to  hear  any  singing  before  I  went  out,  except  an 
oratorio,  where  I  fell  asleep ;  but  this,  by  George,  is  as 
fine  as  Incledon ! "  He  became  quite  excited  over  his 
.sherry-and- water  —  ("I'm  sorry  to  see  you,  gentlemen, 
drinking  brandy -pawnee,"  says  he;  "it  plays  the  deuce 
with  our  young  men  in  India.")  He  joined  in  all  the 
choruses  with  an  exceedingly  sweet  voice.  He  laughed 
at  "The  Derby  Ram"  so  that  it  did  you  good  to  hear 
him ;  and  when  Hoskins  sang  (as  he  did  admirably)  "The 
Old  English  Gentleman,"  and  described,  in  measured 
cadence,  the  death  of  that  venerable  aristocrat,  tears 
trickled  down  the  honest  warrior's  cheek,  while  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  Hoskins  and  said,  "Thank  you, '■sir,  for 
that  song ;  it  is  an  honor  to  human  nature."  On  which 
Hoskins  began  to  cry  too. 

And  now  young  Nadab,  having  been  cautioned,  com- 
menced one  of  those  surprising  feats  of  improvisation 
with  which  he  used  to  charm  audiences.  He  took  us  aU 
off,  and  had  rhymes  pat  about  all  the  principal  persons 
in  the  room :  King's  pins  (which  he  wore  very  splendid), 
Martin's  red  waistcoat,  etc.  The  Colonel  was  charmed 
with  each  feat,  and  joined  delighted  with  the  chorus  — 
" Ritolderol-ritolderol-ritolderolderay  "  (bis).  And,  when 
coming  to  the  Colonel  himself,  he  burst  out  — 

"  A  military  gent  I  see  —  and  while  his  face  I  scan, 
I  think  you'll  all  agree  with  me — -he  came  from  Hindostan. 
And  by  his  side  sits  laughing  free —  a  youth  with  curly  head. 
I  think  you'll  all  agree  with  me  —  that  he  was  best  in  bed.    Ritolde- 
rol,  etc." 

2l6 


Boon  Companions 

The  Colonel  laughed  immensely  at  this  sally,  and 
clapped  his  son,  young  Clive,  on  the  shoulder.  "Hear 
what  he  says  of  you,  sir  ?  Clive,  best  be  off  to  bed,  my 
boy  —  ho,  ho  !  No,  no.  We  know  a  trick  worth  two  of 
that.  'We  won't  go  home  till  morning,  till  daylight  does 
appear.'  Why  should  we?  Why  shouldn't  my  boy 
have  innocent  pleasure?  I  was  allowed  none  when  I 
was  a  young  chap,  and  the  severity  was  nearly  the  ruin 
of  me.  I  must  go  and  speak  with  that  young  man  — 
the  most  astonishing  thing  I  ever  heard  in  my  life. 
What's  his  name?  Mr.  Nadab?  Mr.  Nadab,  sir, 
you  have  delighted  me.  May  I  make  so  free  as  to 
ask  you  to  come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow  at  six. 
Colonel  Newcome,  if  you  please,  Nerot's  Hotel,  Clifford 
Street.  I  am  always  proud  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  men  of  genius,  and  you  are  one,  or  my  name  is  not 
Newcome ! " 

"Sir,  you  do  me  honor,"  says  Mr.  Nadab,  pulling  up 
his  shirt-collar,  "and  per'aps  the  day  will  come  when  the 
world  will  do  me  justice.  May  I  put  down  your  honored 
name  for  my  book  of  poems  ?  " 

"Of  course,  my  dear  sir,"  says  the  enthusiastic  Colonel ; 
"I'll  send  them  all  over  India.  Put  me  down  for  six 
copies,  and  do  me  the  favor  to  bring  them  to-morrow 
when  you  come  to  dinner." 

And  now  Mr.  Hoskins,  asking  if  any  gentleman  would 
volunteer  a  song,  what  was  our  amazement  when  the  simple 
Colonel  offered  to  sing  himself,  at  which  the  room  ap- 
plauded vociferously;  whilst  methought  poor  Clive 
Newcome  hung  down  his  head,  and  blushed  as  red  as  a 
peony.  I  felt  for  the  young  lad,  and  thought  what  my  own 
sensations  would  have  been  if,  in  the  place,  my  own  uncle, 
217 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Major  Pendennis,  had  suddenly  proposed  to  exert  his 
lyrical  powers. 

The  Colonel  selected  the  ditty  of  "Wapping  Old 
Stairs"  (a  ballad  so  sweet  and  touching  that  surely  any 
English  poet  might  be  proud  to  be  the  father  of  it),  and 
he  sang  this  quaint  and  charming  old  song  in  an  exceed- 
ingly pleasant  voice,  with  flourishes  and  roulades  in  the 
old  Incledon  manner,  which  has  pretty  nearly  passed 
away.  The  singer  gave  his  heart  and  soul  to  the  simple 
ballad,  and  delivered  Molly's  gentle  appeal  so  patheti- 
cally that  even  the  professional  gentlemen  hummed  and 
buzzed  a  sincere  applause;  and  some  wags,  who  were 
inclined  to  jeer  at  the  beginning  of  the  performance, 
clinked  their  glasses  and  rapped  their  sticks  with  quite 
a  respectful  enthusiasm.  When  the  song  was  over,  Clive 
held  up  his  head  too ;  after  the  shock  of  the  first  verse, 
looked  round  with  surprise  and  pleasure  in  his  eyes ;  and 
we,  I  need  not  say,  backed  our  friend,  delighted  to  see  him 
come  out  of  his  queer  scrape  so  triumphantly.  The 
Colonel  bowed  and  smiled  with  very  pleasant  good  nature 
at  our  plaudits.  It  was  like  Dr.  Primrose  preaching  his 
sermon  in  the  prison.  There  was  something  touching 
in  the  naivete  and  kindness  of  the  placid  and  simple 
gentleman. 

Great  Hoskins,  placed  on  high,  amidst  the  tuneful 
choir,  was  pleased  to  signify  his  approbation,  and  gave  his 
guest's  health  in  his  usual  dignified  manner.  "I  am 
much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Hoskins;  "the  room 
ought  to  be  much  obhged  to  you :  I  drink  your  'ealth  and 
song,  sir";  and  he  bowed  to  the  Colonel  pohtely  over 
his  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  of  which  he  absorbed  a 
little  in  his  customer's  honor.  "I  have  not  heard  that 
218 


Boon  Companions 

song,"  he  was  kind  enough  to  say,  "better  performed 
since  Mr.  Incledon  sung  it.  He  was  a  great  singer,  sir, 
and  I  may  say,  in  the  words  of  our  immortal  Shakespeare, 
that,  take  him  for  all  in  all,  we  shall  not  look  upon  his 
like  again." 

The  Colonel  blushed  in  his  turn,  and  turning  round  to 
his  boy  with  an  arch  smile,  said,  "I  learnt  it  from  Incle- 
don. I  used  to  shp  out  out  from  Grey  Friars  to  hear 
him,  Heaven  bless  me,  forty  years  ago,  and  I  used  to  be 
flogged  afterwards,  and  served  me  right  too.  Lord! 
Lord  !  how  the  time  passes  ! "  He  drank  off  his  sherry- 
and-water,  and  fell  back  in  his  chair :  we  could  see  he  was 
thinking  about  his  youth  —  the  golden  time  —  the  happy, 
the  bright,  the  unforgotten.  I  was  myself  nearly  two- 
and-twenty  years  of  age  at  that  period,  and  felt  as  old  as, 
ay,  older  than  the  Colonel. 

Whilst  he  was  singing  his  ballad,  there  had  walked,  or 
rather  reeled,  into  the  room,  a  gentleman  in  a  military 
frock-coat  and  duck  trousese  of  dubious  hue,  with  whose 
name  and  person  some  of  my  readers  are  perhaps  already 
acquainted.  In  fact,  it  was  my  friend  Captain  Costigan, 
in  his  usual  condition  at  this  hour  of  the  night. 

Holding  on  by  various  tables,  the  Captain  had  sidled 
up,  without  accident  to  himself  or  any  of  the  jugs  and 
glasses  round  about  him,  to  the  table  where  we  sat,  and 
had  taken  his  place  near  the  writer,  his  old  acquaintance. 
He  warbled  the  refrain  of  the  Colonel's  song,  not  inhar- 
moniously;  and  saluted  its  pathetic  conclusion  with  a 
subdued  hiccup  and  a  plentiful  effusion  of  tears.  "  Bedad, 
it  is  a  beautiful  song,"  says  he,  "and  many  a  time  I  heard 
poor  Harry  Incledon  sing  it." 

"He's  a  great  character,"  whispered  that  imlucky 
319 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

King  of  Corpus  to  his  neighbor  the  Colonel;  "was  a 
Captain  in  the  army.  We  call  him  the  General.  Cap- 
tain Costigan,  will  you  take  something  to  drink  ?  " 

"Bedad,  I  will,"  says  the  Captain,  "and  I'll  sing  ye  a 
song  tu." 

And,  having  procured  a  glass  of  whiskey-and-water 
from  the  passing  waiter,  the  poor  old  man,  settling  his 
face  into  a  horrid  grin,  and  leering,  as  he  was  wont,  when 
he  gave  what  he  called  one  of  his  prime  songs,  began  his 
music. 

The  unlucky  wretch,  who  scarcely  knew  what  he  was 
doing  or  saying,  selected  one  of  the  most  outrageous  per- 
formances of  his  repertoire,  fired  off  a  tipsy  howl  by  way 
of  overture,  and  away  he  went.  At  the  end  of  the  second 
verse  the  Colonel  started  up,  clapping  on  his  hat,  seizing 
his  stick,  and  looking  as  ferocious  as  though  he  had  been 
going  to  do  battle  with  a  Pindaree.  "Silence!"  he 
roared  out. 

"Hear,  hear!"  cried  certain  wags  at  a  farther  table. 
"  Go  on,  Costigan  ! "  said  others. 

"Go  on!"  cries  the  Colonel,  in  his  high  voice,  trem- 
bling with  anger.  "Does  any  gentleman  say  'Go  on'? 
Does  any  man  who  has  a  wife  and  sisters,  or  children  at 
home,  say  'Go  on'  to  such  disgusting  ribaldry  as  this? 
Do  you  dare,  sir,  to  call  yourself  a  gentleman,  and  to  say 
that  you  hold  the  King's  commission,  and  to  sit  down 
amongst  Christians  and  men  of  honor,  and  defile  the  ears 
of  young  boys  with  this  wicked  balderdash?" 

"Why  do  you  bring  young  boys  here,  old  boy?"  cries 
a  voice  of  the  malcontents. 

"Why?  Because  I  thought  I  was  coming  to  a  society 
of  gentlemen?"    cried  out  the  indignant  Colonel.     "Be- 

220 


Boon  Companions 

cause  I  never  could  have  believed  that  EngUshmen  could 
meet  together  and  allow  a  man,  and  an  old  man,  so  to 
disgrace  himself.  For  shame,  you  old  wretch !  Go 
home  to  your  bed,  you  hoary  old  sinner !  And  for  my 
part,  I'm  not  sorry  that  my  son  should  see,  for  once  in  his 
life,  to  what  shame  and  degradation  and  dishonor,  drunk- 
enness and  whiskey  may  bring  a  man.  Never  mind  the 
change,  sir  !  —  Curse  the  change  ! "  says  the  Colonel,  fac- 
ing the  amazed  waiter.  "Keep  it  till  you  see  me  in  this 
place  again ;  which  will  be  never  —  by  George,  never  ! " 
And  shouldering  his  stick,  and  scowling  round  at  the 
company  of  scared  bacchanalians,  the  indignant  gentle- 
man stalked  away,  his  boy  after  him. 

CUve  seemed  rather  shamefaced ;  but  I  fear  the  rest 
of  the  company  looked  still  more  foohsh. 

"Aussi  que  diable  venait-il  faire  dans  cctte  galere?" 
says  King  of  Corpus  to  Jones  of  Trinity ;  and  Jones  gave 
a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  which  were  smarting,  perhaps ; 
for  that  uplifted  cane  of  the  Colonel's  had  somehow 
fallen  on  the  back  of  every  man  in  the  room. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 

TT  is  a  good  thing  to  be  rich,  and  a  good  thing  to 

■'■    be  strong,  but  it  is  a  better  thing  to  be  loved  of 

many  friends. 

Euripides 

TC'OR  there  is  no  man  that  imparteth  his  joys  to  his 
■*■  friend,  but  he  joyeth  the  more  ;  and  no  man  that 
imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend,  but  he  grieveth  the 
less. 

Bacon 

221 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

The  Reel  of  TuUochgorum      <:>     -"cv     <:>     -o 

r\  TULLOCHGORUM'S  my  deUght, 
^-^  It  gars  us  a'  in  ane  unite, 
And  ony  sumph  that  keeps  a  spite, 

In  conscience  I  abhor  him ; 
For  biythe  and  cheery  we'll  be  a', 
Blythe  and  cheery,  biythe  and  cheery, 
Biythe  and  cheery  we'll  be  a', 
And  make  a  happy  quorum ; 
For  biythe  and  cheery  we'll  be  a' 
As  lang  as  we  hae  breath  to  draw, 
And  dance  till  we  be  like  to  fa' 
The  Reel  of  Tullochgorvim. 

May  choicest  blessings  aye  attend 
Each  honest,  open-hearted  friend, 
And  calm  and  quiet  be  his  end, 

And  a'  that's  good  watch  o'er  him ; 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 
Peace  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty, 
Peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 

And  dainties  a  great  store  o'  them  — 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 
Unstained  by  any  vicious  spot. 
And  may  he  never  want  a  groat 
That's  fond  o'  Tullochgorvun. 

John  Skinner 


TIj'RIENDSHIP    is  the  wine  of  existence;   love  the 
"■•      dram-drinking. 

Bulwer 

222 


Boon  Companions 

The  Men  of  Gotham     ^v>     -o     ^o     -oy     -<: 

C  EAMEN  three !    What  men  be  ye  ? 

^~^   Gotham's  three  wise  men  we  be. 

Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free  ? 

To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea  — 

The  bowl  goes  trim, 

The  moon  doth  shine, 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  — 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Who  art  thou,  so  fast  adrift  ? 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care, 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 
No :  I  may  not  enter  there. 
Wherefore  so  ? 
'Tis  Jove's  decree 

In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be  — 

In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 

Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll  ? 
No :  in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 
What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl  ? 
Water  may  not  pass  the  brim  — 
The  bowl  goes  trim, 
The  moon  doth  shine, 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  — 

And  your  baUast  is  old  wine. 

W.  E.  Henley 


223 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

A  Wayfaring  Song      <:^      <::i^       -;:><::>      ^:> 

/^  WHO  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 
^^   Along  life's  merry  way  ? 
A  comrade  blithe  and  full  of  glee, 
Who  dares  to  laugh  out  loud  and  free 

And  let  his  froUc  fancy  play, 
Like  a  happy  child,  through  the  flowers  gay 
That  fill  the  field  and  fringe  the  way 

Where  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 


And  who  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 

Along  Ufe's  weary  way  ? 
A  friend  whose  heart  has  eyes  to  see 
The  stars  shine  out  o'er  the  darkening  lea, 

And  the  quiet  rest  at  the  end  o'  the  day,  — 
A  friend  who  knows,  and  dares  to  say, 
The  brave,  sweet  words  that  cheer  the  way 

Where  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 

With  such  a  comrade,  such  a  friend, 
I  fain  would  walk  till  journeys  end. 
Through  summer  sunshine,  winter  rain. 
And  then  ?  —  Farewell,  we  shall  meet  again  ! 

Henry  van  Dyke 

T  T  NDER  the  magnetism  of  friendship  the  modest 
^-^     man  becomes  bold;  the  shy,  confident;  the  lazy, 
active;  or  the  impetuous,  prudent  and  peaceful. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


224 


Boon  Companions 

Sarah  Gamp  and  Betsey  Prig   <:>   ^-ci^   -s>y   -Oy 

"DETSEY  PRIG  expected  pickled  salmon.  It  was 
-*-^  obvious  that  she  did;  for  her  first  words,  after 
glancing  at  the  table,  were:  — 

"I  know'd  she  wouldn't  have  a  coucumberl" 

Mrs.  Gamp  changed  color,  and  sat  down  upon  the  bed- 
stead. 

"Lord  bless  you,  Betsey  Prig,  yoiu:  words  is  true.  I 
quite  forgot  it ! " 

Mrs.  Prig,  looking  steadfastly  at  her  friend,  put  her  hand 
in  her  pocket,  and,  with  an  air  of  surly  triumph,  drew 
forth  either  the  oldest  of  lettuces  or  youngest  of  cabbages, 
but  at  any  rate,  a  green  vegetable  of  an  expansive  nature, 
and  of  such  magnificent  proportions  that  she  was  obliged 
to  shut  it  up  Uke  an  umbrella  before  she  could  pull  it 
out.  She  also  produced  a  handful  of  mustard  and  cress, 
a  trifle  of  the  herb  called  dandelion,  three  bunches  of 
radishes,  an  onion  rather  larger  than  an  average  turnip, 
three  substantial  slices  of  beetroot,  and  a  short  prong  or 
antler  of  celery;  the  whole  of  this  garden-stuff  having 
been  publicly  exhibited  but  a  short  time  before  as  a  two- 
penny salad,  and  purchased  by  Mrs.  Prig,  on  condition 
that  the  vendor  could  get  it  all  into  her  pocket.  Which 
had  been  happily  accomplished,  in  High  Holbom:  to 
the  breathless  interest  of  a  hackney-coach  stand.  And 
she  laid  so  little  stress  on  this  surprising  forethought, 
that  she  did  not  even  smile,  but  returning  her  pocket  into 
its  accustomed  sphere,  merely  recommended  that  these 
productions  of  nature  should  be  sliced  up,  for  immediate 
consumption,  in  plenty  of  vinegar. 

"And  don't  go  a  dropping  none  of  your  snuff  in  it," 
Q  225 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

said  Mrs.  Prig.  "In  gruel,  bariey- water,  apple-tea, 
mutton-broth,  and  that,  it  don't  signify.  It  stimulates 
a  patient.     But  I  don't  relish  it  myself." 

"Why,  Betsey  Prig !"  cried  Mrs.  Gamp,  "how  can  you 
talk  so!" 

"Wot,  an't  your  patients,  wotever  their  diseases  is, 
always  a  sneezin'  their  wery  heads  off,  along  of  your 
snuflf ! "  said  Mrs.  Prig. 

"And  wot  if  they  are  !"  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 

"Nothing  if  they  are,"  said  Mrs.  Prig.  "But  don't 
deny  it,  Sairah." 

"Who  deniges  of  it?"  Mrs.  Gamp  inquired. 

Mrs.  Prig  returned  no  answer. 

"Who  deniges  of  it,  Betsey?"  Mrs.  Gamp  inquired 
again.  Then  Mrs.  Gamp,  by  reversing  the  question, 
imparted  a  deeper  and  more  awful  character  of  solemnity 
to  the  same.     "Betsey,  who  deniges  of  it?" 

It  was  the  nearest  possible  approach  to  a  very  decided 
difference  of  opinion  between  these  ladies ;  but  Mrs. 
Prig's  impatience  for  the  meal  being  greater  at  the  mo- 
ment than  her  impatience  of  contradiction,  she  replied, 
for  the  present,  "Nobody,  if  you  don't,  Sairah,"  and 
prepared  herself  for  tea.  For  a  quarrel  can  be  taken  up 
at  any  time,  but  a  Umited  quantity  of  salmon  cannot. 

Her  toilet  was  simple.  She  had  merely  to  "chuck" 
her  bonnet  and  shawl  upon  the  bed ;  give  her  hair  two 
pulls,  one  upon  the  right  side  and  one  upon  the  left,  as  if 
she  were  ringing  a  couple  of  bells;  and  all  was  done. 
The  tea  was  already  made,  Mrs.  Gamp  was  not  long  over 
the  salad,  and  they  were  soon  at  the  height  of  their  repast. 

The  temper  of  both  parties  was  improved,  for  the  time 
being,  by  the  enjoyments  of  the  table.    When  the  meal 
226 


Boon  Companions 

came  to  a  termination  (which  it  was  pretty  long  in  doing), 
and  Mrs.  Gamp  having  cleared  away,  produced  the  tea- 
pot from  the  top-shelf,  simultaneously  with  a  couple  of 
wine-glasses,  they  were  quite  amiable. 

"Betsey,"  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  fiUing  her  own  glass,  and 
passing  the  tea-pot,  "I  will  now  propoge  a  toast.  My 
frequent  pardner,  Betsey  Prig  ! " 

"Which,  altering  the  name  to  Sairah  Gamp,  I  drink," 
said  Mrs.  Prig,  "with  love  and  tenderness." 

From  this  moment,  symptoms  of  inflammation  began 
to  lurk  in  the  nose  of  each  lady ;  and  perhaps,  notwith- 
standing all  appearances  to  the  contrary,  in  the  temper 
also. 

"Now,  Sairah,"  said  Mrs.  Prig,  "joining  business  with 
pleasure,  wot  is  this  case  in  which  you  wants  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Gamp  betraying  in  her  face  some  intention  of 
returning  an  evasive  answer,  Betsey  added :  — 

"/sit  Mrs.  Harris?" 

"No,  Betsey  Prig,  it  ain't,"  was  Mrs.  Gamp's  reply. 

"Well!"  said  Mrs.  Prig,  with  a  short  laugh.  "I'm 
glad  of  that,  at  any  rate." 

"Why  should  you  be  glad  of  that,  Betsey?"  Mrs. 
Gamp  retorted  warmly.  "She  is  unbeknown  to  you 
except  by  hearsay,  why  should  you  be  glad  ?  If  you  have 
anythink  to  say  contrairy  to  the  character  of  Mrs.  Harris, 
which  well  I  knows  behind  her  back,  afore  her  face,  or 
anywheres,  is  not  to  be  impeaged,  out  with  it,  Betsey. 
I  have  know'd  that  sweetest  and  best  of  women,"  said 
Mrs.  Gamp,  shaking  her  head,  and  shedding  tears,  "ever 
since  afore  her  First,  which  Mr.  Harris  who  was  dreadful 
timid  went  and  stopped  his  ears  in  a  empty  dog-kennel, 
and  never  took  his  hands  away  or  come  out  once  till  he  was 
227 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

showed  the  baby,  wen  bein'  took  with  fits,  the  doctor 
collared  him  and  laid  him  on  his  back  upon  the  airy 
stones,  and  she  was  told  to  ease  her  mind,  his  owls  was 
organs.  And  I  have  know'd  her,  Betsey  Prig,  when  he 
has  hurt  her  feelin'  art  by  sayin'  of  his  Ninth  that  it  was 
one  too  many,  if  not  two,  while  that  dear  innocent  was 
cooin'  in  his  face,  which  thrive  it  did  though  bandy,  but 
I  have  never  know'd  as  you  had  occagion  to  be  glad, 
Betsey,  on  accounts  of  Mrs.  Harris  not  requiring  you. 
Require  she  never  will,  depend  upon  it,  for  her  constant 
words  in  sickness  is,  and  will  be,  '  Send  for  Sairey  ! '  " 

During  this  touching  address,  Mrs.  Prig,  adroitly  feign- 
ing to  be  the  victim  of  that  absence  of  mind  which  has 
its  origin  in  excessive  attention  to  one  topic,  helped  her- 
self from  the  tea-pot  without  appearing  to  observe  it. 
Mrs.  Gamp  observed  it,  however,  and  came  to  a  pre- 
mature close  in  consequence. 

"Well,  it  ain't  her,  it  seems,"  said  Mrs.  Prig,  coldly: 
"who  is  it,  then?" 

"You  have  heerd  me  mention,  Betsey,"  Mrs.  Gamp 
replied,  after  glancing  in  an  expressive  and  marked 
manner  at  the  tea-pot,  "a.  person  as  I  took  care  on  at  the 
time  as  you  and  me  was  pardners  oflf  and  on,  in  that  there 
fever  at  the  Bull?" 

"Old  Snuffey,"  Mrs.  Prig  observed. 

Sarah  Gamp  looked  at  her  with  an  eye  of  fire,  for  she 
saw  in  this  mistake  of  Mrs.  Prig,  another  wilful  and 
malignant  stab  at  that  same  weakness  of  custom  of  hers, 
an  imgenerous  allusion  to  which,  on  the  part  of  Betsey, 
had  first  disturbed  their  harmony  that  evening.  And 
she  saw  it  still  more  clearly,  when,  pohtely  but  firmly 
correcting  that  lady  by  the  distinct  enunciation  of  the 
228 


Boon  Companions 

word  "Chuffey,"  Mrs.  Prig  received  the  correction  with 
a  diabolical  laugh.  .  .  . 

"Mr.  Chuffey,  Betsey,"  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  "is  weak 
in  his  mind.  Excuge  me  if  I  makes  remark,  that  he  may 
neither  be  so  weak  as  i>eople  thinks,  nor  people  may  not 
think  he  is  so  weak  as  they  pretends,  and  what  I  knows, 
I  knows ;  and  what  you  don't,  you  don't ;  so  do  not  ask 
me,  Betsey.  But  Mr.  Chuffey 's  friends  has  made  pro- 
pojals  for  his  bein'  took  care  on,  and  has  said  to  me, 
'  Mrs.  Gamp,  mill  you  undertake  it  ?  We  couldn't  think,' 
they  says,  'of  trustin'  him  to  nobody  but  you,  for,  Sairey, 
you  are  gold  as  has  passed  through  the  furnage.  Will 
you  undertake  it,  at  your  own  price,  day  and  night,  and 
by  your  own  self?'  'No,'  I  says,  'I  will  not.  Do  not 
reckon  on  it.  There  is,'  I  says,  'but  one  creetur  in  the 
world  as  I  would  undertake  on  sech  terms,  and  her  name 
is  Harris.  But,'  I  says,  'I  am  acquainted  with  a  friend, 
whose  name  is  Betsey  Prig,  that  I  can  recommend,  and 
will  assist  me.  Betsey,'  I  says,  '  is  always  to  be  trusted, 
under  me,  and  will  be  gmded  as  I  could  desire.'" 

Here  Mrs.  Prig,  without  any  abatement  of  her  offensive 
manner,  again  counterfeited  abstraction  of  mind,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  tea-pot.  It  was  more  than 
Mrs.  Gamp  could  bear.  She  stopped  the  hand  of  Mrs. 
Prig  with  her  own,  and  said,  with  great  feehng :  — 

"No,  Betsey  !    Drink  fair,  wotever  you  do  !" 

Mrs.  Prig,  thus  baffled,  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair, 
and  closing  the  same  eye  more  emphatically,  and  folding 
her  arms  tighter,  suffered  her  head  to  roll  slowly  from 
side  to  side,  while  she  surveyed  her  friend  with  a  con- 
temptuous smile. 

Mrs.  Gamp  resumed :  — 

339 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

"Mrs.  Harris,  Betsey—" 

"Bother  Mrs.  Harris  !"  said  Betsey  Prig. 

Mrs.  Gamp  looked  at  her  with  amazement,  incredulity, 
and  indignation;  when  Mrs.  Prig,  shutting  her  eye  still 
closer,  and  folding  her  arms  still  tighter,  uttered  these 
memorable  and  tremendous  words :  — 

"I  don't  believe  there's  no  sich  a  person !" 

After  the  utterance  of  which  expressions,  she  leaned 
forward,  and  snapped  her  fingers  once,  twice,  thrice; 
each  time  nearer  to  the  face  of  Mrs.  Gamp;  and  then 
rose  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  as  one  who  felt  that  there  was 
now  a  gulf  between  them,  which  nothing  could  ever 
bridge  across. 

Charles  Dickens 

The  Club      ''^^     "^^     '^^     ''^     '^^^      •^^^     ''^i>' 

nPHE  number  of  members  was  Umited  to  nine.  They 
-^  were  to  meet  and  sup  together  once  a  week,  on 
Monday  night,  at  the  Turk's  Head  on  Gerard  Street, 
Soho,  and  two  members  were  to  constitute  a  meeting. 
It  took  a  regular  form  in  the  year  1764,  but  did  not  receive 
its  hterary  appellation  until  several  years  afterwards. 

The  original  members  were  Reynolds,  Johnson,  Burke, 
Dr.  Nugent,  Bennet  Langton,  Topham  Beauclerc, 
Chamier,  Hawkins,  and  Goldsmith  ;  and  here  a  few  words 
concerning  some  of  the  members  may  be  acceptable. 
Burke  was  at  that  time  about  thirty- three  years  of  age ; 
he  had  mingled  a  Uttle  in  politics  and  been  Under-Secre- 
tary to  Hamilton  at  Dublin,  but  was  again  a  writer  for 
the  booksellers,  and  as  yet  but  in  the  dawning  of  his  fame. 
Dr.  Nugent  was  his  father-in-law,  a  Roman  Catholic, 
and  a  physician  of  talent  and  instruction.  Mr.  (after- 
230 


Boon  Companions 

wards  Sir  John)  Hawkins  was  admitted  into  this  associa- 
tion from  having  been  a  member  of  Johnson's  Ivy-Lane 
club.  Originally  an  attorney,  he  had  retired  from  the 
practice  of  the  law,  in  consequence  of  a  large  fortune 
which  fell  to  him  in  right  of  his  wife,  and  was  now  a 
Middlesex  magistrate.  He  was,  moreover,  a  dabbler  in 
literature  and  music,  and  was  actually  engaged  on  a 
history  of  music,  which  he  subsequently  pubhshed  in 
five  ponderous  volumes.  To  him  we  are  also  indebted 
for  a  biography  of  Johnson,  which  appeared  after  the 
death  of  that  eminent  man.  Hawkins  was  as  mean  and 
parsimonious  as  he  was  pompous  and  conceited.  He  for- 
bore to  partake  of  the  suppers  at  the  club,  and  begged 
therefore  to  be  excused  from  paying  his  share  of  the  reck- 
oning. "And  was  he  excused?"  asked  Dr.  Burney  of 
Johnson.  "Oh,  yes,  for  no  man  is  angry  with  another 
for  being  inferior  to  himself.  We  all  scorned  him  and 
admitted  his  plea.  Yet  I  really  believe  him  to  be  an 
honest  man  at  bottom,  though  to  be  sure  he  is  penurious, 
and  he  is  mean,  and  it  must  be  owned  he  has  a  tendency 
to  savageness."  He  did  not  remain  above  two  or  three 
years  in  the  club ;  being  in  a  manner  elbowed  out  in  con- 
sequence of  his  rudeness  to  Burke. 

Mr.  Anthony  Chamier  was  Secretary  in  the  war-oflBce, 
and  a  friend  of  Beauclerc,  by  whom  he  was  proposed. 
We  have  left  out  mention  of  Bennet  Langton  and  Topham 
Beauclerc  until  the  last,  because  we  have  most  to  say 
about  them.  They  were  doubtless  induced  to  join  the 
club  through  their  devotion  to  Johnson,  and  the  intimacy 
of  these  two  very  young  and  aristocratic  men  with  the 
stern  and  somewhat  melancholy  moralist  is  among  the 
curiosities  of  literature. 

231 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Bennet  Langton  was  of  an  ancient  family,  who  held 
their  ancestral  estate  of  Langton  in  Lincolnshire,  —  a 
great  title  to  respect  with  Johnson.  "Langton,  sir," 
he  would  say,  "has  a  grant  of  free- warren  from  Henry 
the  Second;  and  Cardinal  Stephen  Langton,  in  King 
John's  reign,  was  of  his  family." 

Langton  was  of  a  mild,  contemplative,  enthusiastic 
nature.  When  but  eighteen  years  of  age  he  was  so  de- 
lighted Avith  reading  Johnson's  Rambler,  that  he  came 
to  London  chiefly  with  a  view  to  obtain  an  introduction 
to  the  author.  Boswell  gives  us  an  account  of  his  first 
interview,  which  took  place  in  the  morning.  It  is  not 
often  that  the  personal  appearance  of  an  author  agrees 
with  the  preconceived  ideas  of  his  admirer.  Langton, 
from  pursuing  the  writings  of  Johnson,  expected  to  find 
him  a  decent,  well-dressed,  in  short,  a  remarkably  decorous, 
philosopher.  Instead  of  which,  down  from  his  bed- 
chamber about  noon,  came,  as  newly  risen,  a  large  un- 
couth figure,  with  a  httle  dark  wig  which  scarcely  cov- 
ered his  head,  and  his  clothes  hanging  loosely  about  him. 
But  his  conversation  was  so  rich,  so  animated,  and  so 
forcible,  and  his  religious  and  political  notions  so  con- 
genial with  those  in  which  Langton  had  been  educated, 
that  he  conceived  for  him  that  veneration  and  attachment 
which  he  ever  preserved. 

Langton  went  to  pursue  his  studies  at  Trinity  College, 
Oxford,  where  Johnson  saw  much  of  him  during  a  visit 
which  he  paid  to  the  University.  He  found  him  in  close 
intimacy  with  Topham  BeauclerCj  a  youth  two  years 
older  than  himself,  very  gay  and  dissipated,  and  wondered 
what  sympathies  could  draw  two  young  men  together  of 
such  opposite  characters.  On  becoming  acquainted  with 
232 


Boon  Companions 

Beauclerc  he  found  that,  rake  though  he  was,  he  pos* 
sessed  an  ardent  love  of  literature,  an  acute  understand- 
ing, polished  wit,  innate  gentility,  and  high  aristocratic 
breeding.  He  was,  moreover,  the  only  son  of  Lord 
Sidney  Beauclerc  and  grandson  of  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans, 
and  was  thought  in  some  particulars  to  have  a  resemblance 
to  Charles  the  Second.  These  were  high  recommenda- 
tions with  Johnson;  and  when  the  youth  testified  a 
profound  respect  for  him  and  an  ardent  admiration  of  his 
talents,  the  conquest  was  complete,  so  that  "in  a  short 
time,"  says  Boswell,  "the  moral,  pious  Johnson  and  the 
gay,  dissipated  Beauclerc  were  companions." 

The  intimacy  begun  in  college  chambers  was  continued 
when  the  youths  came  to  town  during  the  vacations. 
The  uncouth,  unwieldy  moraUst  was  flattered  at  finding 
himself  an  object  of  idolatry  to  two  high-born,  high-bred, 
aristocratic  young  men,  and  throwing  gravity  aside,  was 
ready  to  join  in  their  vagaries  and  play  the  part  of  a 
"young  man  upon  town."  Such  at  least  is  the  picture 
given  of  him  by  Boswell  on  one  occasion  when  Beauclerc 
and  Langton,  having  supped  together  at  a  tavern,  deter- 
mined to  give  Johnson  a  rouse  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  They  accordingly  rapped  violently  at  the 
door  of  his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  The  indignant 
sage  sallied  forth  in  his  shirt,  poker  in  hand,  and  a  httle 
black  wig  on  top  of  his  head  instead  of  helmet ;  prepared 
to  wreak  vengeance  on  the  assailants  of  his  castle;  but 
when  his  two  young  friends  Lanky  and  Beau,  as  he  used 
to  call  them,  presented  themselves,  summoning  him  forth 
to  a  morning  ramble,  his  whole  manner  changed.  "  What, 
is  it  you,  ye  dogs?"  cried  he.  "Faith,  I'll  have  a  frisk 
with  you ! " 

233 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

So  said  so  done.  They  sallied  forth  together  into 
Covent  Garden;  figured  among  the  greengrocers  and 
fruit-women,  just  come  in  from  the  country  with  their 
hampers ;  repaired  to  a  neighboring  tavern,  where  John- 
son brewed  a  bowl  of  bishop,  a  favorite  beverage  with 
him,  grew  merry  over  his  cups,  and  anathematized  sleep 
in  two  lines,  from  Lord  Lansdowne's  drinking-song :  — 

"Short,  very  short,  be  then  thy  reign. 
For  I'm  in  haste  to  laugh  and  drink  again." 

They  then  took  boat  again,  rowed  to  Bilhngsgate,  and 
Johnson  and  Beauclerc  determined,  like  "mad  wags," 
to  "keep  it  up"  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Langton,  how- 
ever, the  most  sober-minded  of  the  three,  pleaded  an 
engagement  to  breakfast  with  some  young  ladies ;  where- 
upon the  great  moralist  reproached  him  with  "leaving 
his  social  friends  to  go  and  sit  with  a  set  of  wretched 
un-idead  girls." 

This  madcap  freak  of  the  great  lexicographer  made  a 
sensation,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  among  his  intimates' 
"I  heard  of  your  frolic  t'other  night,"  said  Garrick  to 
him;  "you'U  be  in  the  Chronicle."  He  uttered  worse 
forebodings  to  others.  "I  shall  have  my  old  friend  to 
bail  out  of  the  round-house,"  said  he.  Johnson,  however, 
valued  himself  upon  having  thus  enacted  a  chapter  in 
the  "Rake's  Progress,"  and  crowed  over  Garrick  on  the 
occasion.  "He  durst  not  do  such  a  thing,"  chuckled 
he;   "his  wife  would  not  let  him  !" 

The  gay  yet  lettered  rake  maintained  his  sway  over 
Johnson,  who  was  fascinated  by  that  air  of  the  world, 
that  ineffable  tone  of  good  society  in  which  he  felt  him- 

234 


Boon  Companions 

self  deficient,  especially  as  the  possessor  of  it  always  paid 
homage  to  his  superior  talent.  "Beauclerc,"  he  would 
say,  using  a  quotation  from  Pope,  "has  a  love  of  folly, 
but  a  scorn  of  fools ;  everything  he  does  shows  the  one, 
and  everything  he  says,  the  other."  Beauclerc  dehghted 
in  rallying  the  stern  moralist  of  whom  others  stood  in 
awe,  and  no  one,  according  to  Boswell,  could  take  equal 
liberty  with  him  with  impunity.  .  .  . 

When  it  was  at  first  proposed  to  enroU  Goldsmith 
among  the  members  of  this  association,  there  seems  to 
have  been  some  demur;  at  least  so  says  the  pompous 
Hawkins.  "As  he  wrote  for  the  booksellers,  we  of  the 
club  looked  on  him  as  a  mere  literary  drudge,  equal  to 
the  task  of  compiling  and  translating,  but  Uttle  capable 
of  original  and  still  less  of  poetical  composition." 

Even  for  some  time  after  his  admission  he  continued 
to  be  regarded  in  a  dubious  light  by  some  of  the  members. 
Johnson  and  Reynolds,  of  course,  were  well  aware  of  his 
merits,  nor  was  Burke  a  stranger  to  them;  but  to  the 
others  he  was  as  yet  a  sealed  book,  and  the  outside  was 
not  prepossessing.  His  ungainly  person  and  awkward 
manners  were  against  him  with  men  accustomed  to  the 
graces  of  society,  and  he  was  not  sufficiently  at  home  to 
give  play  to  his  humor  and  to  that  bonhomie  which  won 
the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  him.  He  felt  strange  and  out 
of  place  in  his  new  sphere ;  he  felt  at  times  the  cool, 
satirical  eye  of  the  courtly  Beauclerc  scanning  him,  and 
the  more  he  attempted  to  appear  at  his  ease,  the  more 
awkward  he  became. 

Washington  Irving  in  "  Oliver  Goldsmith  " 


235 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Auld  Lang  Syne     ^rry     *:i>-     <:i^     ^^i.-     -vi.     <:> 

OHOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
^^    And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

Chorus, 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

From  mornin  sun  till  dine ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  tak'  a  right  guidwilUe-waught, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine  ; 
And  we'll  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

Robert  Burns 
236 


IX 
FRIENDSHIPS   BETWEEN   WOMEN 


237 


'&fm, 


FRIENDSHIPS 
BETWEEN   WOMEN 

Friendship  between  Women 
The  Greek  Gossips 
Hermia  and  Helena 
Sophie  and  Roxandra 
Madame  de  Stael  and  Madame 

R6camier 
The  Portrait  of  a  Friend 
Fanny  Squeers  and  Matilda 

Price 


w.Tjr 


TN  love  women  exceed  the  generality  of  men,  but  in 
■^  freindship  we  have  infinitely  the  advantage. 

La  Bruyere 

No  friendship  is  so  cordial  or  so  delicious  as  that  of 
girl  for  girl;  no  hatred  so  intense  and  immovable  as  that 
of  woman  for  woman. 

Waller  Savage  Landor 


240 


Friendship  between  Women     -v>     ^;:>     <:iy    <iy 

TN  searching  for  the  friendships  of  women,  it  is  difficult 
■*•  at  first  to  find  striking  examples.  Their  lives  are  so 
private,  their  dispositions  are  so  modest,  their  experiences 
have  been  so  little  noticed  by  history,  that  the  annals  of 
the  feminine  heart  are  for  the  most  part  a  secret  chapter. 
But  a  sufficiently  patient  search  will  cause  a  beautiful 
multitude  of  such  instances  to  reveal  themselves.  Noth- 
ing, perhaps,  will  strike  the  literary  investigator  of  the 
subject  more  forcibly  than  the  frequency  with  which  he 
meets  the  expressed  opinion,  that  women  really  have 
few  or  no  friendships ;  that  with  them  it  must  be  either 
love,  hate,  or  nothing.  A  writer  in  one  of  our  popular 
periodicals  has  recently  ventured  this  dogmatic  assertion : 
"If  the  female  mind  were  not  happily  impervious  to 
logic,  we  might  demonstrate,  even  to  its  satisfaction, 
that  the  history  of  the  sex  presents  no  single  instance  of 
a  famous  friendship."  .  .  . 

Swift  says,  "To  speak  the  truth,  I  never  yet  knew  a 
tolerable  woman  to  be  fond  of  her  own  sex."  The  state- 
ment, if  taken  with  too  wide  a  meaning,  might  have  been 
refuted  by  the  sight,  under  his  eyes,  of  the  cordial  and 
life-long  affection  of  Miss  Johnson  and  Lady  Gifford, 
the  sister  of  Sir  William  Temple.  He  could  not  expect 
a  Stella  and  a  Vanessa  to  be  friends:  an  exclusive  love 
for  a  common  object  inevitably  made  them  deadly  rivals. 
But  the  author  of  "Gulliver's  Travels"  was  a  keen  ob- 
server ;  his  maxims  have  always  a  basis  in  fact ;  and  it  is 
imdoubtedly  true  that  women  of  exceptional  cleverness 

R  241 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

prefer  the  wit,  wisdom,  and  earnestness  of  the  more  cul- 
tivated members  of  the  other  sex  to  the  too  frequent 
ignorance  and  triviality  of  their  own.  Undoubtedly, 
in  most  societies,  women  of  unusual  genius  and  accom- 
plishments can  more  easily  find  congenial  companionship 
with  men  than  with  women.  But  to  infer  from  this  any 
natural  incompatibility  for  friendships  between  women 
is  to  draw  a  monstrous  inference,  wholly  unwarranted  by 
the  premises.  ... 

It  is  true,  that  women  are  more  imperiously  called  to 
love  than  men  are ;  are  more  likely  to  be  absorbed  by 
this  master  passion,  and  thus  are  more  exposed  to  jeal- 
ousy of  each  other.  It  is  true,  that,  owing  to  their  greater 
sensitiveness,  keener  subjection  to  the  fastidious  sway 
of  taste,  women  are  more  apt  than  men  to  fall  out, 
being  more  easily  disturbed  and  estranged  by  trifles; 
but  this  relative  subjection  to  trifles  is  chiefly  a 
consequence  of  the  exclusion  of  women  hitherto 
from  the  grandest  fields  of  education,  the  noblest 
subjects  of  interest  and  action.  It  is  true,  that  the 
attachments  of  women,  on  account  of  the  greater  pri- 
vacy of  their  lives,  are  less  conspicuous  than  those  of 
men,  less  frequently  obtain  historic  or  literary  mention, 
and  therefore  seem  to  be  rarer.  But  it  is  not  true,  either 
that  women  are  incapable  of  enthusiastic  and  steadfast 
friendships  for  each  other,  or  that  such  friendships  are 
uncommon.  If  women  are  more  critical  and  severe 
towards  their  own  sex  than  men  are,  it  is  chiefly  because 
they  cannot,  hke  men,  be  indifferent  to  each  other ; 
they  must  positively  feel  either  sjonpathy  or  aversion. 

It  is  very  frequently  the  case,  that  a  single  woman, 
blessed  with  wealth,  invites  some  friend,  to  whom  she  is 
242 


Friendships  between  Women 

strongly  attached,  to  accept  a  home  with  her ;  and  they 
hve  henceforth  in  indissoluble  union.  Such  an  instance 
among  men  is  almost  as  rare  as  a  white  blackbird.  Un- 
married sisters  so  often  pass  all  their  years  together,  in- 
separably united,  both  inwardly  and  outwardly,  that 
almost  every  one  of  us  is  acquainted  with  many  examples. 
But  it  is  extremely  rare  for  bachelor  brothers  to  club 
together,  and  pass  a  wholly  shared  existence.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  fretfulness,  spitefulness,  revengefulness, 
equal  to  those  of  a  woman.  There  is  no  grace,  sweet- 
ness, dignity,  disinterestedness,  equal  to  those  of  a  woman- 
And,  when  all  is  said,  the  conclusion  of  one  who  under- 
stands the  subject  will  be,  that,  for  quick  depth  of  sym- 
pathy, intuitive  divination,  joyous  sacrifice,  perfect  re- 
production of  all  the  modulations  of  feeling,  there  is  no 
friendship  equal  to  that  of  a  woman. 

William  RounseviUe  Alger 

The  Greek  Gossips      ^o      -^^riy      <^      -Ci^     <:> 

Cargo.    Is  Praxinoe  at  home  ? 

Praxinoe.  Dear  Gorgo,  how  long  it  is  since  you  have 
been  here !  She  is  at  home.  The  wonder  is  that  you 
have  got  here  at  last !  Eunoe,  see  that  she  has  a  chair. 
Throw  a  cushion  on  it,  too. 

Gorgo.    It  does  most  charmingly  as  it  is. 

Praxinoe.     Do  sit  down. 

Gorgo.  Oh,  what  a  thing  spirit  is !  I  have  scarcely 
got  to  you  alive,  Praxinoe !  What  a  huge  crowd !  what 
hosts  of  four-in-hands !  Everywhere  cavalry  boots, 
everywhere  men  in  uniform  !  And  the  road  is  endless : 
yes,  you  really  live  too  far  away ! 

Praxinoe.    It  is  all  the  fault  of  that  madman  of  mine. 

243 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Here  he  came  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  took  a  hole, 
not  a  house,  and  all  that  we  might  not  be  neighbors.- 
The  jealous  wretch,  always  the  same,  ever  for  spite  ! 

Gorgo.  Don't  talk  of  your  husband,  Dinon,  Uke  that, 
my  dear  girl,  before  the  Uttle  boy,  —  look  how  he  is  star- 
ing at  you !  Never  mind,  Zoprion,  sweet  child,  she  is 
not  speaking  about  papa. 

Praxinoe.     Our  Lady  !  the  child  takes  notice. 

Gorgo.    Nice  papa! 

Praxinoe.  That  papa  of  his  the  other  day  —  we  call 
every  day  "  the  other  day  "  —  went  to  get  soap  and  rouge 
at  the  shop,  and  back  he  came  to  me  with  salt  —  the 
great  big  endless  fellow  ! 

Gorgo.  Mine  has  the  same  trick,  too,  a  perfect  spend- 
thrift —  Diocleides  !  Yesterday  he  got  what  he  meant  for 
five  fleeces,  and  paid  seven  shillings  apiece  for  —  what 
do  you  suppose  ?  —  dogskins,  shreds  of  old  leather  wallets, 
mere  trash  —  trouble  on  trouble.  But  come,  take  your 
cloak  and  shawl.  Let  us  be  off  to  the  palace  of  rich 
Ptolemy,  the  King,  to  see  the  Adonis ;  I  hear  the  Queen 
has  provided  something  splendid  ! 

Praxinoe.     Fine  folks  do  everything  finely. 

Gorgo.  What  a  tale  will  you  have  to  tell  about  the 
things  you  have  seen,  to  any  one  who  has  not  seen  them ! 
It  seems  nearly  time  to  go. 

Praxinoe.  Idlers  have  always  holiday.  Eunoe,  bring 
the  water  and  put  it  down  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  lazy 
creature  that  you  are.  Cats  like  always  to  sleep  soft ! 
Come,  bustle,  bring  the  water;  quicker.  I  want  water 
first,  and  how  she  carries  it !  give  it  to  me  all  the  same ; 
don't  pour  out  so  much,  you  extravagant  thing.  Stupid 
girl !  Why  are  you  wetting  my  dress  ?  There,  stop,  I 
244 


Friendships  between  Women 

have  washed  my  hands,  as  heaven  would  have  it.     Where 
is  the  key  of  the  big  chest  ?     Bring  it  here. 

Gorgo.  Praxinoe,  that  full  body  becomes  you  wonder- 
fully. Tell  me  how  much  did  the  stuff  cost  you  just  off 
the  loom? 

Praxinoe.  Don't  speak  of  it,  Gorgo !  More  than 
eight  pounds  in  good  silver  money,  —  and  the  work  on  it ! 
I  nearly  slaved  my  soul  out  over  it ! 

Gorgo.     Well,  it  is  most  successful ;  all  you  could  wish. 

Praxinoe.  Thanks  for  the  pretty  speech !  Bring  my 
shawl  and  set  my  hat  on  my  head,  the  fashionable  way. 
No,  child,  I  don't  mean  to  take  you.  Boo !  Bogies ! 
There's  a  horse  that  bites  !  Cry  as  much  as  you  please, 
but  I  cannot  have  you  lamed.  Let  us  be  moving. 
Phrygia,  take  the  child,  and  keep  him  amused;  call  in  the 
dog,  and  shut  the  street  door.     [Exit.] 

Theocritus  (Translated  by  Andrew  Lang) 

Hermia  and  Helena      <::b.      ^o      ^c^.-      -^^i^      -v>k 

TS  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shared, 

■*■  The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 

When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 

For  parting  us,  —  0,  is  it  all  forgot  ? 

All  school-day's  friendship,  childhood  innocence  ? 

We,  Hermia,  Uke  two  artificial  gods, 

Have  with  our  needles  created  both  one  flower, 

Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion. 

Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key, 

As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices  and  minds, 

Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 

Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 

245 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

But  yet  an  union  in  partition ; 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem ; 
So,"with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart; 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 
Due  but  to  one  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 

William  Shakespeare 

Sophie  and  Roxandra  <::>      ^^^^      ^:>      <o      ^o 

'T^HE  letters  of  Roxandra  have  not  been  pubUshed; 
-■-  but,  in  those  of  Sophie,  both  souls  are  clearly  re- 
flected. For,  as  M.  de  Falloux  says,  Madame  Swetchine 
never  used  hackneyed  language,  never  repeated  for  one 
what  she  had  first  thought  for  another.  She  placed 
herself,  with  a  skill,  or  rather  a  condescension,  truly 
marvellous,  at  the  point  of  view  of  those  with  whom  she 
conversed  ;  and  she  would  never  have  so  easily  ended  by 
bringing  them  to  herself,  had  she  not  always  begun  by 
going  to  them.  This  habit  was  so  famihar,  this  move- 
ment so  natural  to  her,  that,  at  the  close  of  every  cor- 
respondence, we  have  before  our  eyes  the  physiognomy 
of  the  correspondent  as  distinctly  outhned  as  the  physi- 
ognomy of  the  writer :  — 

"Did  you  believe  me,  my  dear  Roxandra,  when  I 
mechanically  said,  on  leaving  you,  that  I  should  write 
to  you  only  after  five  or  six  days?  I  knew  not  what  I 
said  at  the  time.  If  you  begin  to  know  me  a  little,  you 
have  seen  that  I  could  never  bear  so  long  a  silence.  La 
Bruyere  has  said,  'How  difficult  it  is  to  be  satisfied  with 
any  one ! '  Ah !  well,  my  friend,  I  am  satisfied  with 
you ;  and,  were  it  not  for  my  extreme  self-distrust,  which 
nourishes  so  many  inquietudes,  I  should  be  almost  tran- 
246 


Friendships  between  Women 

quil,  almost  happy,  almost  reasonable.  My  friend,  this 
moment  I  receive  your  letter:  how  can  I  thank  you? 
Ah !  read  my  grateful  heart ;  and  sometimes  tell  me, 
that  you  wish  to  keep  it,  in  order  that  it  may  become 
worthy  of  you."  —  "I  feel  so  deeply  the  happiness  of 
being  loved  by  you,  that  you  can  never  cease  to  love 
me."  —  "I  need  to  know  all  your  thoughts,  to  follow 
all  your  motions,  and  can  find  no  other  occupation  so 
sweet  and  so  dear."  —  "My  heart  is  so  full  of  you,  that, 
since  we  parted,  I  have  thought  of  nothing  but  writing 
to  you."  —  "I  see  in  your  soul  as  if  it  were  my  own."  — 
"When  near  you,  I  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  calmness 
and  depth,  which  agrees  with  me ;  although  I  have  not  the 
rages  of  King  Saul,  there  is  in  the  sound  of  your  voice 
something,  I  know  not  what,  that  reminds  me  of  the  effect 
of  the  harp  of  David."  —  "Never  was  there  a  goodness 
more  compassionate  and  penetrating  than  yours.  Yours 
are  the  words  that  seek  pain  at  the  bottom  of  the  soul  in 
order  to  soothe  it.  How  well  you  possess  that  divine 
dexterity  which  applies  balm  to  wounds  almost  without 
touching  them!"  —  "My  friend,  I  have  met  nothing 
sweeter,  more  consoling  to  love,  than  you.  The  ad- 
mirable simplicity  of  your  character,  its  steadiness,  its 
frankness,  have  a  charm  which  more  than  attracts:  it 
fixes."  —  "We  must  carry,  untouched,  to  the  gates  of 
eternity  the  deposit  each  has  confided  to  the  other." 

The  above  extracts  give  some  idea  of  the  warmth  and 
preciousness  of  the  surpassing  friendship,  but  no  idea  of 
the  high  and  varied  range  of  intellectual  and  religious 
interests  that  entered  into  it.  "I  always,"  Madame 
Swetchine  writes,  "have  your  little  ring  on  my  finger. 
This  symbol,  fragile  as  all  symbols,  will  outlive  me ;  but 
247 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

I  grieve  not  for  that,  since  I  am  sure  that  the  sentiment 
which  makes  me  prize  it  so  highly  will  survive  it  in  turn." 
Dora  Greenwell  says,  "The  letters  of  Madame  Swetchine 
are  full  of  an  intimate  sweetness  that  has  something  in  it, 
piercing  even  to  pain,  hke  the  scent  of  the  sweet-brier." 
We  are  reminded  of  this  when  she  writes,  "If  Ufe  were 
perfectly  beautiful,  yet  death  would  be  perfectly  desir- 
able." Also  again,  when  she  writes  to  her  Roxandra, 
"What  is  the  pen,  sad  signal  of  our  long  separation,  after 
the  pleasure  of  flinging  myself  on  your  neck,  and  pouring 
my  soul  into  yours  through  a  deluge  of  words?"  The 
two  friends  often  indulged  the  sweet  dream  of  passing 
their  last  years  together,  preparing  each  other  for  the 
passage  equally  dreaded  and  desired,  advancing  arm  in 
arm,  and  heart  in  heart,  towards  the  unknown.  The 
dream  was  not  destined  for  fulfilment.  But  Madame 
Swetchine  had  the  great  joy  of  seeing  her  favorite  nephew 
—  one  of  the  Gargarian  boys  whom  she  loved  so  fondly 
in  their  childhood  —  married  to  Marie  Stourdza,  the  niece 
and  sole  heiress  of  her  friend.  The  only  words  we  have 
seen  from  Roxandra  herself  are  worthy  of  the  eulogies 
paid  her,  and  would  seem  to  justify  the  highest  estimate 
of  her  character.  She  says,  "May  we  all  contribute,  by 
our  Ufe  and  our  death,  to  the  great  thought  of  God,  — 
the  reestabhshment  of  order  and  of  truth  among  men  ! " 
And  again,  amid  the  alarming  revolutions  that  were 
shaking  all  Europe,  she  says,  "We  are  witnessing  the 
grand  judgment  of  human  pride." 

William  Rounseville  Alger 

TTOW  many  lack  friendship  rather  than  friends  ! 
■*■  "*■ .  Seneca 

248 


Friendships  between  Women 

Madame  de  Stael  and  Madame  Recamier     ^=^ 

T^HE  first  meeting  of  these  celebrated  women  took 
■*-  place  when  Madame  de  Stael  was  thirty- two  years 
old;  Madame  Recamier,  twenty-one.  Among  the  few 
existing  papers  from  the  pen  of  the  latter  is  a  description 
of  this  interview :  — 

"  She  came  to  si>eak  with  me  for  her  father,  about  the 
purchase  of  a  house.  Her  toilet  was  odd.  She  wore  a 
morning  gown,  and  a  little  dress  bonnet,  adorned  with 
flowers.  I  took  her  for  a  stranger  in  Paris.  I  was 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  her  eyes  and  her  look.  She 
said,  with  a  vivid  impressive  grace,  that  she  was  de- 
lighted to  know  me ;  that  her  father,  M.  Necker  —  at 
these  words,  I  recognized  Madame  de  Stael !  I  heard  not 
the  rest  of  her  sentence.  I  blushed;  my  embarrassment 
was  extreme.  I  had  just  come  from  reading  her  '  Letters 
on  Rousseau,'  and  was  full  of  the  excitement.  I  expressed 
what  I  felt  more  by  my  looks  than  by  my  words.  She 
at  the  same  time  awed  and  drew  me.  She  fixed  her 
wonderful  eyes  on  me,  with  a  curiosity  full  of  kindness, 
and  complimented  me  on  my  figure,  in  terms  which  would 
have  seemed  exaggerated  and  too  direct  if  they  had  not 
been  marked  by  an  obvious  sincerity,  which  made  the 
praise  very  seductive.  She  perceived  my  embarrass- 
ment, and  expressed  a  desire  to  see  me  often,  on  her 
return  to  Paris;  for  she  was  going  to  Coppet.  It  was 
then  a  mere  apparition  in  my  life ;  but  the  impression  was 
intense.  I  thought  only  of  Madame  de  Stael,  so  sttongly 
did  I  return  the  action  of  this  ardent  and  forceful  nature." 
Madame  de  Stael  was  a  plain,  energetic  embodiment 
of  the  most  impassioned  genius.  Madame  Recamier  was 
249 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

a  dazzling  personification  of  physical  loveliness,  united 
with  the  perfection  of  mental  harmony.  She  had  an 
enthusiastic  admiration  for  her  friend,  who,  in  return, 
found  an  unspeakable  luxury  in  her  society.  Her  angelic 
candor  of  soul,  and  the  frosty  purity  which  enveloped  her 
as  a  shield,  inspired  the  tenderest  respect;  while  her 
happy  equipoise  calmed  and  refreshed  the  restless  and 
expansive  imagination  of  the  renowned  author.  There 
could  be  no  rivalry  between  them.  Both  had  lofty  and 
thoroughly  sincere  characters.  .  .  .  "Are  you  not 
happy,"  writes  Madame  de  Stael,  "in  your  magical 
power  of  inspiring  affection  ?  To  be  sure  of  always 
being  loved  by  those  you  love,  seems  to  me  the  highest 
terrestrial  happiness,  the  greatest  conceivable  privi- 
lege." .  .  .  And  when,  years  afterward,  on  the  loss  of 
her  property,  Madame  Recamier  betook  herself  to  the 
Abbaye-aux-Bois,  in  her  humble  chamber,  where  she 
was  more  sought  and  admired  than  ever  in  her  proudest 
prosperity,  the  chief  articles  to  be  seen,  in  addition  to 
the  indispensable  furniture,  were,  as  Chateaubriand  has 
described  the  scene,  a  library,  a  harp,  a  piano,  a  mag- 
nificent portrait  of  Madame  de  Stael  by  Gerard,  and 
a  moonlight  view  of  Coppet.  Madame  de  Stael  had 
once  written  to  her,  "  Your  friendship  is  like  the  spring 
in  the  desert,  that  never  fails ;  and  it  is  this  which  makes 
it  impossible  not  to  love  you."  Death  caused  no  decay 
of  that  sentiment,  but  raised  and  sanctified  it.  Her 
translated  friend  now  became  an  object  of  worship ;  and 
she  devoted  her  whole  energies  to  extend  and  preserve 
the  memory  of  the  illustrious  writer. 

William  Rounseville  Alger 


250 


Friendships  between  Women 
The  Portrait  of  a  Friend      ^^y       ^o       <::>       <:> 

[The  reference  is  to  Miss  Mary  Mitford.] 

TV  yr Y  dear  Mr.  Ruskin,  —  I  thank  you  from  my  heart 
^^^  for  your  more  than  interestifig  letter.  You  have 
helped  me  to  see  that  dear  friend  of  ours,  as  without  you 
I  could  not  have  seen  her,  in  those  last  affecting  days 
of  illness,  by  the  window  not  only  of  the  house  in  Berk- 
shire, but  of  the  house  of  the  body  and  of  the  material 
world  —  an  open  window  through  which  the  light  shone, 
thank  God.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me  now  if  I  had 
had  the  privilege  of  giving  her  a  very,  very  little  of  the 
great  pleasure  you  certainly  gave  her  (for  I  know  how 
she  enjoyed  your  visit  —  she  wrote  and  told  me),  but  I 
must  be  satisfied  with  the  thought  left  to  me,  that  now 
she  regrets  nothing,  not  even  great  pleasures. 

I  agree  with  you  in  much  if  not  in  everything  you 
have  written  of  her.  It  was  a  great,  warm,  outflowing 
heart,  and  the  head  was  worthy  of  the  heart.  People 
have  observed  that  she  resembled  Coleridge  in  her 
granite  forehead  —  something,  too,  in  the  lower  part  of 
the  face,  —  however,  unlike  Coleridge  in  mental  char- 
acteristics, in  his  tendency  to  abstract  speculation,  or 
indeed  his  ideaUty.  There  might  have  been,  as  you 
suggest,  a  somewhat  different  development  elsewhere 
than  in  Berkshire  —  not  very  different,  though  —  souls 
don't  grow  out  of  the  ground. 

I  agree  quite  with  you  that  she  was  stronger  and  wider 
in  her  conversation  and  letters  than  in  her  books.  Oh, 
I  have  said  so  a  hundred  times.  The  heat  of  human 
sympathy  seemed  to  bring   out  her  powerful  vitality, 

251 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

rustling  all  over  with  laces  and  flowers.  She  seemed 
to  think  and  speak  stronger,  holding  a  hand  —  not  that 
she  required  help  or  borrowed  a  word,  but  that  the 
human  magnetism  acted  on  her  nature,  as  it  does  upon 
men  born  to  speak.  Perhaps  if  she  had  been  a  man  with 
a  man's  opportunities,  she  would  have  spoken  rather 
than  written  a  reputation.  Who  can  say?  She  hated 
the  act  of  composition.  Did  you  hear  that  from  her 
ever? 

Her  letters  were  always  admirable,  but  I  do  most 
deeply  regret  that  what  made  one  of  their  greatest  charms 
unfits  them  for  the  public  —  I  mean  their  personal 
details.  Mr.  Harness  sends  to  me  for  letters,  and  when 
I  bring  them  up,  and  with  the  greatest  pain  force  myself 
to  examine  them  (all  those  letters  she  wrote  to  me  in  her 
warm  goodness  and  affectionateness),  I  find  with  wonder 
and  sorrow  how  only  a  half-page  here  and  there  could 
be  submitted  to  general  readers,  —  coidd,  with  any 
decency,  much  less  delicacy. 

But  no,  her  "judgment"  was  not  "unerring."  She 
was  too  intensely  sympathetica!  not  to  err  often,  and  in 
fact  it  was  singular  (or  seemed  so)  what  faces  struck  her 
as  most  beautiful,  and  what  books  as  most  excellent. 
If  she  loved  a  person,  it  was  enough.  She  made  mistakes 
one  couldn't  help  smiling  at,  till  one  grew  serious  to  adore 
her  for  it.  And  yet  when  she  read  a  book,  provided  it 
wasn't  written  by  a  friend,  edited  by  a  friend,  lent  by  a 
friend,  or  associated  with  a  friend,  her  judgment  could 
be  fine  and  discriminating  on  most  subjects,  especially 
upon  subjects  connected  with  life  and  society  and  man- 
ners, 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 
252 


Friendships  between  Women 


Fanny  Squeers  and  Matilda  Price  ^c:y     <:iy    <;ix 

OPITE  is  a  little  word;  but  it  represents  as  strange 
^^  a  jumble  of  feelings  and  compound  of  discords,  as 
any  polysyllable  in  the  language.  .  .  .  We  have  such 
extraordinary  powers  of  persuasion  when  they  are  exerted 
over  ourselves,  that  Miss  Squeers  felt  quite  highminded 
and  great,  after  her  noble  renunciation  of  John  Browdie's 
hand,  and  looked  down  upon  her  rival  with  a  kind  of 
holy  calmness  and  tranquillity,  that  had  a  mighty  effect 
in  soothing  her  ruffled  feelings. 

This  happy  state  of  mind  had  some  influence  in  bring- 
ing about  a  reconciliation ;  for  when  a  knock  came  at  the 
front  door  next  day,  and  the  miller's  daughter  was  an- 
nounced. Miss  Squeers  betook  herself  to  the  parlor  in  a 
Christian  frame  of  spirit  perfectly  beautiful  to  behold. 

"Well,  Fanny,"  said  the  miller's  daughter,  "you  see  I 
have  come  to  see  you,  although  we  had  some  words  last 
night." 

"I  pity  your  bad  passions,  'Tilda,"  replied  Miss 
Squeers;  "but  I  bear  no  maUce.    I  am  above  it." 

"Don't  be  cross,  Fanny,"  said  Miss  Price.  "I  have 
come  to  tell  you  something  that  I  know  will  please  you." 

"What  may  that  be,  'Tilda  ?"  demanded  Miss  Squeers, 
screwing  up  her  Ups,  and  looking  as  if  nothing  in  earth, 
air,  fire,  or  water  could  afford  her  the  shghtest  gleam  of 
satisfaction. 

"This,"  rejoined  Miss  Price.  "After  we  left  here  last 
night,  John  and  I  had  a  dreadful  quarrel." 

"That  doesn't  please  me,"  said  Miss  Squeers  —  relax- 
ing into  a  smile,  though. 

253 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

"Lor !  I  wouldn't  think  so  bad  of  you  as  to  suppose 
it  did,"  rejoined  her  companion.     "That's  not  it." 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Squeers,  relapsing  into  melancholy. 
"Go  on." 

"After  a  great  deal  of  wrangling  and  saying  we  would 
never  see  each  other  any  more,"  continued  Miss  Price, 
"we  made  it  up,  and  this  morning  John  went  and  wrote 
our  names  down  to  be  put  up  for  the  first  time,  next 
Sunday,  so  we  shall  be  married  in  three  weeks,  and  I  give 
you  notice  to  get  your  frock  made." 

There  was  mingled  gall  and  honey  in  this  intelligence. 
The  prospect  of  the  friend's  being  married  so  soon  was 
the  gall,  and  the  certainty  of  her  not  entertaining  serious 
designs  upon  Nicholas  was  the  honey.  Upon  the  whole, 
the  sweet  greatly  preponderated  over  the  bitter,  so  Miss 
Squeers  said  she  would  get  the  frock  made,  and  that  she 
hoped  'Tilda  might  be  happy,  though  at  the  same  time 
she  didn't  know,  and  would  not  have  her  build  too  much 
upon  it,  for  men  were  strange  creatures,  and  a  great  many 
married  women  were  very  miserable,  and  wished  them- 
selves single  again  with  all  their  hearts ;  to  which  con- 
dolences Miss  Squeers  added  others  equally  calculated 
to  raise  her  friend's  spirits  and  promote  her  cheerfulness 
of  mind. 

"But  come  now,  Fanny,"  said  Miss  Price,  "I  want  to 
have  a  word  or  two  with  you  about  young  Mr.  Nickleby." 

"He  is  nothing  to  me,"  interrupted  Miss  Squeers,  with 
hysterical  symptoms.     "I  despise  him  too  much!" 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  that,  I  am  sure,"  replied  her 
friend.     "Confess,  Fanny;    don't  you  like  him,  now?" 

Without  returning  any  direct  reply,  Miss  Squeers  all  at 
once  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  spiteful  tears,  and  exclaimed 

254 


Friendships  between  Women 

that  she  was  a  wretched,  neglected,  miserable  cast- 
away. 

"I  hate  everybody,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  "and  I  wish 
that  everybody  was  dead  —  that  I  do." 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  Miss  Price,  quite  moved  by  this 
avowal  of  misanthropical  sentiments.  "You  are  not 
serious,  I  am  sure." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  rejoined  Miss  Squeers,  tying  tight  knots 
in  her  pocket-handkerchief  and  clenching  her  teeth. 
"And  I  wish  I  was  dead  too.     There." 

"Oh!  you'll  think  very  differently  in  another  five 
minutes,"  said  Matilda.  "How  much  better  to  take 
him  into  favor  again,  than  to  hurt  yourself  by  going  on  in 
that  way;  wouldn't  it  be  much  nicer  now  to  have  him 
all  to  yourself  on  good  terms,  in  a  company-keeping, 
love-making,  pleasant  sort  of  manner?" 

"I  don't  know  but  what  it  would,"  sobbed  Miss 
Squeers.  "Oh!  'Tilda,  how  could  you  have  acted  so 
mean  and  dishonorable  !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of 
you  if  anybody  had  told  me." 

"Heyday!"  exclaimed  Miss  Price,  giggling.  "One 
would  suppose  I  had  been  murdering  somebody  at 
least." 

"Very  nigh  as  bad,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  passionately. 

"And  all  this  because  I  happen  to  have  enough  of  good 
looks  to  make  people  civil  to  me,"  cried  Miss  Price. 
"Persons  don't  make  their  own  faces,  and  it's  no  more 
my  fault  if  mine  is  a  good  one,  than  it  is  other  people's 
fault  if  theirs  is  a  bad  one." 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  shrieked  Miss  Squeers,  in  her 
shrillest  tone;  "or  you'll  make  me  slap  you,  'Tilda,  and 
afterwards  I  should  be  sorry  for  it." 

255 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

It  is  needless  to  say  that,  by  this  time,  the  temper  of 
each  young  lady  was  in  some  slight  degree  affected  by 
the  tone  of  the  conversation,  and  that  a  dash  of  person- 
ality was  infused  into  the  altercation  in  consequence. 
Indeed,  the  quarrel,  from  slight  beginnings,  rose  to  a  con- 
siderable height,  and  was  assuming  a  very  violent  com- 
plexion, when  both  parties,  falling  into  a  great  passion 
of  tears,  exclaimed  simultaneously,  that  they  had  never 
thought  of  being  spoken  to  in  that  way,  which  exclama- 
tion, leading  to  a  remonstrance,  gradually  brought  on  an 
explanation,  and  the  upshot  was  that  they  fell  into  each 
other's  arms  and  vowed  eternal  friendship ;  the  occasion 
in  question  making  the  fifty-second  time  of  repeating 
the  same  impressive  ceremony  within  a  twelvemonth. 

Charles  Dickens 


256 


X 

PLATONIC   FRIENDSHIP 


2S7 


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PLATONIC   FRIENDSHIP 

Platonic  Friendship 

Madame  Recamier  and  Ballanche 

To  the  Countess  of  Abingdon 

William  Cowper  and  Mary  Unwin 

Platonic  Love 

Rahel  Levin 

To  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford 

From  a  Letter  to  William  Ellcry  Chan- 

ning 
To  a  Portrait  of  Isabel  Fenwick 
From  Two  Famous  Letters 
To  Vittoria  Colonna 
The  Value  of  a  Woman's  Friendship 
Pelisson  and  Mile,  de  Scudery 


ijlU^ 


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fil'STrnS 


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' ^^'V 


O  HOULD  it  appear  that  the  better  part  of  their  na- 
*~-^  ture  has  succeeded  in  bringing  both  the  lover  and 
loved  into  a  life  of  order  and  philosophy,  and  established 
its  own  ascendancy,  —  then  in  bliss  and  harmony  they 
live  out  their  existence  here,  being  masters  of  themselves 
and  decorous  before  the  world,  having  enslaved  that  por- 
tion of  the  soul  wherein  vice  is  contained,  and  Hberated 
that  where  virtue  dwells;  and  at  last  when  they  come 
to  die,  having  grown  their  wings. 

Plato 


260 


Platonic  Friendship      <:i»'      <2y      ^c^     •^^b'      <2>. 

TJ'RIENDSHIP  is  usually  said  to  be  impossible  across 
■*•  the  curious  barrier  which  is  alleged  to  divide  man 
from  woman.  Plato  regarded  such  friendship  as  perfect, 
being  ideal  sympathy.  ...  It  is  a  curious  development 
that  we  should  so  sneer  at  friendship  that  the  most 
perfect  friendship  is  tacitly  regarded  as  imp>ossible. 

Unless  love  be  regarded  as  an  instantaneous  vision, 
knowing  no  premonitions  and  having  no  preludes,  there 
is  nothing  from  which  love  can  grow  but  true  Platonic 
or  perfect  friendship.  .  .  . 

And  it  must  of  necessity  be  disastrous  that  women  can 
influence  women,  and  no  woman  influence  men  save 
through  the  channel  of  matrimony.  There  is  a  deep 
truth  in  the  Russian  proverb  that  he  who  loves  one 
woman  has  some  love  for  all  women.  Ruskin  advised 
every  girl  to  have  six  sweethearts  coincidently.  It  was 
excellent  advice.  That  misjudged  person,  the  flirt,  is 
most  frequently  a  woman  whose  heart  aches  for  friend- 
ship, but  who  keeps  the  richest  store  hidden  for  her  king 
when  he  shall  come.  In  fact,  the  flirt  is  the  only  remain- 
ing artist  in  friendship,  and  a  world  which  knows  not 
what  friendship  is  makes  good  the  deficiency  by  malign- 
ing her.  We  ask  in  love's  forest  that  there  be  only  the 
giant  oak  of  love ;  as  a  matter  of  fact  there  are  the  many 
dwarfed  evergreens  of  friendship  and  the  undergrowth 
of  mere  mutual  esteem,  and  these  shrubs  can  never  grow 
to  be  other  than  they  are.  It  is  folly,  because  we  have 
not  the  oak,  to  burn  to  the  roots  the  other  trees  and 
leave  the  brown  place  bare. 

/.  G.  L. 

261 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


Madame  Recamier  and  Ballanche     <>-<;><::> 

piERRE  SIMON  BALLANCHE,  one  of  the  most 
-'-  delicate  and  philosophical  of  French  authors, 
most  disinterested  and  affectionate  of  men,  the  perfect 
model  of  a  friend,  was  born  at  Lyons  in  1776.  He  was 
first  introduced  to  Madame  Recamier,  in  18 12,  by  their 
common  friend,  the  generous  and  eloquent  Camille 
Jordan.  Ballanche,  in  an  enthusiastic  attachment  to 
a  noble,  portionless  young  girl,  had  suffered  a  disap- 
pointment so  deep,  that  it  caused  him  to  dismiss  all 
thoughts  of  marriage  forever.  He  sought  to  ease  the 
burden  of  rejected  love  by  letting  the  sadness  it  had 
engendered  exhale  in  a  literary  work.  This  exquisite 
work,  called  "Fragments,"  Jordan  induced  Madame 
Recamier  to  read;  he  also  described  to  her  the  refined 
and  magnanimous  character  of  the  author.  Thus  pre- 
pared, and  aided  by  her  own  keen  discernment,  she 
immediately  detected  his  choice  talents,  his  rare  vein  of 
sentiment,  his  abiding  hunger  for  affection.  Ballanche 
was  a  philosopher  of  solitude,  a  poet  and  priest  of  hu- 
manity, —  spending  his  days  far  from  the  crowd  and 
uproar  of  the  world,  —  his  proper  haunt  the  summits  of 
the  lofties  minds,  the  mysterious  cradle  of  the  destinies 
of  society.  His  soul  was  an  ^oUan  harp,  through  which 
the  music  of  the  prehistoric  ages  played.  Chastity  and 
sorrow  were  two  geniuses,  who  unveiled  to  him  the 
destiny  of  man.  His  philosophy,  so  redolent  of  the  heart 
and  the  imagination,  amidst  the  material  struggles  and 
selfishness  of  the  time,  has  been  compared  to  a  chant  of 
Orpheus  in  the  school  of  Hobbes.  The  friendship  which 
Madame  Recamier  gave  this  lonesome,  sad,  expansive, 
262 


Platonic  Friendship 

and  lofty  spirit,  was  as  if  a  goddess  had  come  down  from 
heaven  on  purpose  to  minister  to  him.  She  brought 
him  the  attention  he  needed,  the  sympathy  he  pined 
for,  the  position  and  praise  which  were  so  grateful  to  his 
sensitive  nature.  She  strove  to  win  for  him  from  others 
the  recognition  he  deserved,  to  call  out  his  powers,  and 
to  show  off  his  gifts  to  the  best  advantage.  Ballanche 
was  timid,  awkward,  ugly,  with  no  wealth,  with  no 
rank ;  but,  in  the  sight  of  Madame  Recamier,  the  treas- 
ures and  graces  of  his  soul  were  an  intrinsic  recommenda- 
tion far  superior  to  these  outward  advantages,  and  she 
was  ready  to  honor  it  to  the  full. 

Never  was  kindness  more  worthily  bestowed;  never 
was  it  more  gratefully  received.  "I  often,"  he  says, 
"find  myself  astonished  at  your  goodness  to  me.  The 
silent,  weary,  sad  man,  whom  others  neglect,  you  notice, 
—  and  seek  with  infinite  tact  to  draw  him  out.  You 
are  indulgence  and  pity  personified,  and  you  compas- 
sionately see  in  me  a  kind  of  exile.  Together  with  the 
feeling  of  a  brother  for  a  sister,  I  offer  you  the  homage  of 
my  soul."  From  that  time,  he  belonged  to  her,  and 
could  not  bear  to  live  separate  from  her.  Under  her 
appreciation  and  encouragement,  he  expanded,  hke  a 
plant  moved  from  a  chill  shade  into  the  sunshine.  His 
devotion  was  -entire,  and  sought  no  equal  return.  It 
was  simply  the  natural  expression  of  his  gratitude  to  her, 
his  admiration  of  her,  his  delight  in  seeing  her  and  in 
being  with  her.  His  love  for  her,  like  that  of  Dante  for 
Beatrice,  was  a  religious  worship,  a  celestial  exhalation 
of  his  soul,  utterly  free  from  every  alloy  of  earth  and 
sense.  For  thirty-four  years,  he  was  almost  inseparable 
from  her.  He  removed  to  Paris,  that  he  might  look  on 
263 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

her  every  day.  Wherever  she  travelled,  abroad  or  at 
home,  he  was  one  of  her  companions.  At  her  receptions 
of  company,  the  fame  of  which  has  gone  through  the 
world,  he  was  invariably  an  honored  and  active  assistant. 
And,  despite  his  deformed  face,  and  uncouth  appearance 
and  bearing,  he  was  a  great  favorite  with  all  the  chosen 
guests  at  the  Abbaye-aux-Bois.  To  those  who  really 
knew  him,  his  large,  beaming  eyes  and  noble  forehead, 
his  disinterested  goodness,  his  literary  and  philosophical 
accomplishments,  his  modest  unworldliness  and  attentive 
sympathy,  redeemed  his  physical  blemishes,  and  covered 
them  with  a  radiance  superior  to  that  of  mere  beauty. 
The  letters  of  Ballanche  to  Madame  Recamier  are  charm- 
ing in  their  originaUty.  His  praise  to  her  is  marked  by 
an  inimitable  grace  of  sincerity  and  refinement :  — 

"Your  presence,  so  full  of  magic,  the  sweet  reflection 
of  your  soul,  will  be  to  me  a  powerful  inspiration.  You 
are  a  perfect  poem ;  you  are  poesy  itself.  It  is  your 
destiny  to  inspire,  mine  to  be  inspired.  An  occupation 
would  do  you  good ;  your  disturbed  and  dreamy  imagina- 
tion has  need  of  aliment.  Take  care  of  your  health,  spare 
your  nerves:  you  are  an  angel  who  has  gone  a  little 
astray  in  coming  into  a  world  of  agitation  and  falsehood." 

"Your  province,  like  my  own,"  he  writes,  "is  the 
interior  of  the  sentiments ;  but,  believe  me,  you  have  at 
command  the  genius  of  music,  of  flowers,  of  brooding 
meditation,  and  of  elegance.  Privileged  creature,  assume 
a  little  confidence,  lift  your  charming  head,  and  fear  not 
to  try  your  hand  on  the  golden  lyre  of  the  poets.  It  is 
my  mission  to  see  that  some  trace  of  your  noble  existence 
remains  on  this  earth.  Help  me  to  fulfil  my  mission. 
I  regard  it  as  a  blessing  that  you  will  be  loved  and  appre- 
264 


Platonic  Friendship 

dated  when  you  are  no  more.  It  would  be  a  real  misfor- 
tune if  so  excellent  a  being  should  pass  merely  as  a  charm- 
ing shadow.  Of  what  use  is  memory,  if  it  does  not  p>er- 
petuate  the  beautiful  and  good?" 

This  league  of  lofty  friendship,  of  endearing  intercourse 
and  service,  held  good  while  a  whole  generation  of  mortals 
came  upon  the  stage  and  disappeared ;  and  it  throve  with 
growing  validity  in  the  latest  old  age  of  the  fortunate 
parties. 

When  the  good  Ballanche  was  taken  dangerously 
ill,  Madame  Recamier  had  just  undergone  an  operation 
for  cataract,  and  was  under  strict  orders  from  the  phy- 
sician not  to  leave  her  couch.  But,  on  the  announce- 
ment of  the  condition  of  Ballanche,  she  immediately 
rose,  and  went  to  his  bedside,  and  watched  by  him  until 
his  last  breath.  In  the  anxiety  and  tears  of  this  expe- 
rience, she  lost  all  hope  of  recovering  her  sight.  Her 
incomparable  friend  received  the  supreme  hospitality 
at  her  hands,  and  was  buried  in  her  family  tomb,  — 
leaving,  in  his  works,  a  delightful  picture  of  his  mind ; 
in  his  hfe,  a  perfect  model  of  devotion.  The  removal  of 
this  soul,  echo  of  her  own ;  this  heart,  wholly  filled  by 
her ;  this  mind,  so  gladly  submissive  to  her  influence,  — 
could  not  but  leave  a  mighty  void  behind.  For,  not- 
withstanding the  wondrous  array  of  gifts,  attractions, 
and  attentions  lavished  on  her,  her  deep  sensibility  and 
interior  loneUness  made  her  often  unhappy.  She  would 
sit  by  herself,  in  the  twilight,  playing  from  memory  choice 
pieces  of  the  great  masters  of  music,  the  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks.  Friendship  was  more  than  a  delight: 
it  was  a  necessity  to  her. 

William  RounsmlU  Alger 
265 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

To  the  Countess  of  Abingdon    <::>    <2y    <::y    ^v> 

A  S  swelling  seas  to  gentle  rivers  glide, 
-^*-  To  seek  repose,  and  empty  out  the  tide, 
So  this  full  soul,  in  narrow  limits  pent, 
Unable  to  contain  her,  sought  a  vent 
To  issue  out,  and  in  some  friendly  breast 
Discharge  her  treasures,  and  securely  rest : 
To  unbosom  all  the  secrets  of  her  heart, 
Take  good  advice,  but  better  to  impart. 
For  'tis  the  bliss  of  friendship's  holy  state 
To  mix  their  holy  minds,  and  to  communicate ; 
Though  bodies  cannot,  souls  can  penetrate : 
Fixed  to  her  choice,  inviolably  true. 
And  wisely  choosing,  for  she  chose  but  few. 
Some  she  must  have ;  but  in  no  one  could  find 
A  tally  fitted  for  so  large  a  mind. 
The  souls  of  friends  like  kings  in  progress  are ; 
Still  in  their  own,  though  from  the  palace  far : 
Thus  her  friend's  heart  her  country  dwelhng  was, 
A  sweet  retirement  to  a  coarser  place ; 
Where  pomp  and  ceremonies  entered  not, 
Where  greatness  was  shut  out,  and  business  well  forgot, 

John  Dryden 


"X  ^  THAT  makes  us  so  changeable  in  our  friendships, 
'     is  our  difficulty  to  discern  the  qualities  of  the 
soul,  and  the  ease  with  which  we  detect  those  of  the 
intellect.  Rochefoucauld 

266 


Platonic  Friendship 

Cowper  and  Mary  Unwin      ^o      <::>      -viy      o 

T^AR  above  all  others  in  the  number  of  Cowper's 
-*•  female  friends,  in  importance,  must  be  ranked 
Mary  Unwin,  whose  name  is  indissolubly  joined  with  his 
in  the  memories  of  all  who  are  familiar  with  his  plaintive 
story.  Mrs.  Unwin,  wife  of  a  clergyman,  rehgious  after 
the  most  scrupulous  evangelical  type,  was  first  drawn  to 
Cowper  by  a  sectarian  interest.  They  were  fated  to  be 
friends,  as  by  the  striking  of  a  die.  "That  woman,"  he 
soon  wrote  to  Lady  Hesketh,  "is  a  blessing  to  me ;  and  I 
never  see  her  without  being  the  better  for  her  company." 
This  is  the  secret  of  the  charm  of  all  true  friendship,  — 
that  it  soothes  the  heart,  clarifies  the  mind,  heightens  the 
soul.  One  feels  so  much  the  better  for  it.  Almost 
penniless  as  he  was,  a  shiftless  manager,  assailed  by 
terrible  depression  and  even  madness,  the  Unwins  took 
him  under  their  roof,  and  gave  him  a  home  on  the  most 
generous  terms.  From  this  time  until  her  death,  the 
friendship  of  Mary  was  a  necessity  to  Cowper,  the  great- 
est support  and  enjoyment  the  hapless  poet  knew,  com- 
bining with  his  native  humor  and  gentleness  to  combat 
his  melancholy  malady  with  frequent  and  long  victories. 
In  his  fits  of  insanity,  she  watched  and  waited  on  him  day 
and  night,  defying  alike  personal  hardships  and  the  slan- 
derous remarks  of  the  vile.  The  only  drawback  on  Cow- 
per's indebtedness  to  Mrs.  Unwin,  was  her  jealous  wish 
to  restrict  him  to  the  society  of  her  own  sect  of  reUgionists, 
—  that  harrowing  type  of  piety  represented  by  John 
Newton.  Otherwise,  he  might  have  enjoyed  much  more 
frequent  and  prolonged  periods  of  what  he  cheerily 
characterized  as  "absences  of  Mr.  Bluedevil."  Lady 
267 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Hesketh  said  of  her,  "She  seems  in  truth  to  have  no 
will  left  on  earth  but  for  his  good.  How  she  has  sup- 
ported the  constant  attendance  she  has  gone  through 
with  the  last  thirteen  years  is  to  me,  I  confess,  wonderful." 
Cowper  himself  said,  "It  is  to  her,  under  Providence,  I 
owe  it  that  I  am  alive  at  all."  With  a  devotion  in  which 
self  appeared  to  be  lost,  "there  she  sat,  on  the  hardest 
and  smallest  chair,  leaving  the  best  to  him,  knitting, 
with  the  finest  possible  needles,  stockings  of  the  nicest 
texture.  He  wore  no  others  than  of  her  knitting." 
After  nearly  a  generation  of  her  fond  and  sedulous  minis- 
tering, repeatedly  stricken  with  paralysis,  her  mind 
decayed,  mute,  almost  blind,  as  she  sat  by  his  side,  a 
pathetic  memento  of  what  she  had  been,  Cowper  com- 
posed for  her  that  unsurpassed  tribute,  his  exquisite 
and  imperishable  hues,   "To  Mary":  — 

The  twentieth  year  has  well-nigh  past, 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast  : 
Ah !  would  that  this  might  be  our  last, 
My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow : 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow ; 
'Tis  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low. 
My  Mary ! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust,  disused,  and  shine  no  more. 
My  Mary! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 
My  Mary ! 
268 


Platonic  Friendship 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright. 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary  I 

Partakers  of  my  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  Uttle  force  resign ; 
Yet,  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 
.  My  Mary  I 

Yet  ah  !  by  constant  heed,  I  know 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe. 
My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past. 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last. 
My  Mary ! 

Lady  Hesketh,  ever  a  true  angel,  came  and  dwelt 
with  the  afficted  pair.  And  when  Cowper,  after  four 
wretched  years  of  separation,  plunged,  as  he  expressed  it, 
in  deeps  unvisited  by  any  human  soul  save  his,  followed 
his  faithful  sister-spirit  to  a  better  world,  Lady  Hesketh, 
that  model  of  a  third  friend,  built  in  St.  Edmund's  Chapel, 
where  he  was  buried,  a  monument  displaying  two  tablets, 
both  bearing  poetical  inscriptions;  one  dedicated  to 
William  Cowper,  the  other  to  Mary  Unwin. 

Collated 

'T'HERE   are   no   rules   for  friendship.     It  must  be 
"'■    left  to  itself.    We  cannot  force  it  any  more  than 
love. 

HazliU 
269 


The  Book  of  Friendship 


Platonic  Love      ^;>      <>y      -oy     -<cy      -^y     -c^y 

"D  IGHT  art  thou  who  wouldst  rather  be 
■'-^  A  doorkeeper  in  Love's  fair  house, 
Than  lead  the  wretched  revelry 

Where  fools  at  swinish  troughs  carouse. 
But  do  not  boast  of  being  least ; 

And  if  to  kiss  thy  Mistress'  skirt 
Amaze  thy  brain,  scorn  not  the  Priest 

Whom  greater  honors  do  not  hurt. 
Stand  off  and  gaze,  if  more  than  this 

Be  more  than  thou  canst  understand, 
Revering  him  whose  power  of  bhss. 

Angelic,  dares  to  seize  her  hand; 
Or  whose  seraphic  love  makes  flight, 

To  the  apprehension  of  her  lips ; 
And  think  the  sun  of  such  delight 

From  thine  own  darkness  takes  eclipse. 
And  wouldst  thou  to  the  same  aspire, 

This  is  the  art  thou  must  employ, 
Live  greatly ;  so  shalt  thou  acquire 

Unknown  capacities  of  joy. 

Coventry  Patmore 

""  I  "HE  ancients  held,  it  is  said,  that  each  human  being 
-*-  is  but  half  of  a  perfect  unit ;  and  that  the  divine 
healing  of  life's  wounds  comes  only  when  one  has  the 
rare  good  fortune  to  meet  the  half  of  himself.  Then 
are  both,  as  Plato  writes,  "  smitten  with  a  friendship 
in  a  wondrous  way  "  :  and  these  continue  to  be  friends 
through  life. 

/.  C.  Dier 
270 


Platonic  Friendship 

Rahel  Levin,  Friend  of  Jean  Paul  Richter  and 
of  Many  of  the  Choicest  Spirits  of  Germany 

^  I  "HERE  appeared  a  light,  graceful  figure,  of  small 
-^  stature,  but  strong  make,  with  delicate  and  full 
limbs,  feet  and  hands  remarkably  small ;  the  countenance, 
encircled  with  rich,  dark  locks,  spoke  intellectual  supe- 
riority ;  the  quick  and  yet  firm,  deep  glances  left  the  ob- 
server in  doubt  whether  they  gave  or  received  more; 
an  expression  of  suffering  lent  a  soft  grace  to  the  clear 
features.  She  moved  in  a  dark  dress,  Ught  almost  as  a 
shadow,  but  also  with  freedom  and  sureness ;  her  greeting 
was  as  easy  as  it  was  kindly.  But  what  struck  me  most 
was  the  sonorous  and  mellow  voice  which  seemed  to  swell 
from  the  inmost  depths  of  the  soul,  and  a  conversation  the 
most  extraordinary  that  I  had  ever  met  with.  She  threw 
out,  in  the  most  facile  and  unpretending  fashion,  thoughts 
full  of  originality  and  humor,  where  wit  was  united  with 
simpUcity,  and  acuteness  with  amiabUity ;  and  into  the 
whole  a  deep  truth  was  cast,  as  it  were  out  of  iron,  giv- 
ing to  every  sentence  a  completeness  of  impression  which 
rendered  it  hard  for  the  strongest,  in  any  way,  to  break 
or  rend  it.  In  her  presence,  I  had  the  conviction  that  a 
genuine  human  being  stood  before  me  in  its  most  pure 
and  perfect  type ;  through  her  whole  frame  and  in  all 
her  motions,  nature  and  intellect  in  fresh,  breezy  reci- 
procity; organic  shape,  elastic  fibre,  Hving  connection 
with  everything  around;  the  greatest  originaUty  and 
simplicity  in  perception  and  utterance ;  the  combined 
imposingness  of  innocence  and  wisdom  ;  in  word  and  deed 
alertness,  dexterity,  precision ;  and  all  imbosomed  in  an 
atmosphere  of  the  purest  goodness  and  benevolence; 
271 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

all  guided  by  an  energetic  sense  of  duty,  and  heightened 
by  a  noble  self-forgetfulness  in  the  presence  of  the  joys 
and  griefs  of  others. 

Varnhagen  von  Ense 

To  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford        ^c:>-     ^::i»-     ^^r^. 

^  I  ^HIS  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire, 
-*-    I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous  Muse 
What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most  desire 
To  honor,  serve,  and  love;  as  poets  use, 
I  meant  to  make  her  fair  and  free  and  wise. 
Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more  good  than  great; 
I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter  rise. 
Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  lucent  seat. 
I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile,  sweet, 
Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness,  —  pride; 
I  meant  that  each  softest  virtue  there  should  meet, 
Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 
I  purposed  her,  that  should,  with  even  powers, 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  shears,  control, 
Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 
Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and  wished  to  see, 
My  Muse  bade,  Bedford,  write,  and  that  was  She. 

Ben  Jonson 

From  a  Letter  to  William  Ellery  Channing       <:> 

"  'T'O  converse  with  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend, 
-*-  has  now  become  with  me  not  a  mere  indulgence,  but 
want.  I  daily  discover  more  and  more  how  much  I  have 
come  under  the  influence  of  your  mind,  and  what  great 
things  it  has  done,  and  I  trust  is  still  doing,  for  mine. 
272 


Platonic  Friendship 

I  was  never  duly  sensible,  till  your  writings  made  me  so, 
of  the  transcendent  beauty  and  sublimity  of  Christian 
morals;  nor  did  I  submit  my  heart  and  temper  to  their 
chastening  and  meliorating  influences.  In  particular, 
the  spirit  of  unbounded  benevolence,  which  they  breathe, 
was  a  stranger  to  my  bosom :  far  indeed  was  I  from  look- 
ing upon  all  men  as  my  brethren.  I  shudder  now  to 
think  how  good  a  hater  I  was  in  the  days  of  my  youth. 
Time  and  reflection,  a  wider  range  of  acquaintance,  and 
a  calmer  state  of  the  pubUc  mind,  mitigated  by  degrees 
my  bigotry;  but  I  really  knew  not  what  it  was  to  open  my 
heart  to  the  human  race,  until  I  had  drunk  deeply  into 
the  spirit  of  your  writings.  You  have  given  me  a  new 
being.     May  God  reward  you  !" 

Lucy  Aikin 

To  a  Portrait  of  Isabel  Fenwick      ^;i^     <2y      <:::> 

'\  X  rE  gaze,  nor  grieve  to  think  that  we  must  die. 
^  *    But  that  the  precious  love  this  friend  hath  sown 
Within  our  hearts,  the  love  whose  flower  hath  blown 
Bright  as  if  heaven  were  ever  in  its  eye. 
Will  pass  so  soon  from  human  memory; 
And  not  by  strangers  to  our  blood  alone, 
But  by  our  best  descendants  be  unknown, 
Unthought  of,  —  this  may  surely  claim  a  sigh. 
Yet,  blessed  Art,  we  yield  not  to  dejection, 
Thou  against  time  so  feelingly  dost  strive: 
Where'er,  preserved  in  this  most  true  reflection, 
An  image  of  her  soul  is  kept  alive, 
Some  lingering  fragrance  of  the  pure  affection. 
Whose  flower  with  us  will  vanish,  must  survive. 

William  Wordsworth 

T  373 


The  Book  of  Friendship 
From  Two  Famous  Letters  <:>      -v>      ^;>      ^^iy 

Bettine  to  Goethe's  Mother 

"  "\  ^  rOULD  that  I  sat,  a  beggar-child,  before  his  door, 
*  '  and  took  a  piece  of  bread  from  his  hand,  and  that 
he  knew,  by  my  glance,  of  what  spirit  I  am  the  child.  Then 
would  he  draw  me  nigh  him,  and  cover  me  with  his  cloak, 
that  I  might  be  warm.  I  know  he  would  never  bid  me  go 
again.  I  should  wander  in  the  house,  and  no  one  would 
know  who  I  was  nor  whence  I  came;  and  years  would  pass, 
and  Ufe  would  pass,  and  in  his  features  the  whole  world 
would  be  reflected  to  me,  and  I  shovdd  not  need  to  learn 
anything  more. " 

Goethe  to  Bettine 

"  "X/OUR  dear  letters  bestow  on  me  so  much  that  is 
-^  delightful,  that  they  may  justly  precede  all  else: 
they  give  me  a  succession  of  holidays,  whose  return  always 
blesses  me  anew.  Write  me  all  that  passes  in  your  mind. 
Farewell.     Be  ever  near  me,  and  continue  to  refresh  me. " 

To  Vittoria  Colonna  ^^^y       <::>       -cv       -<cy       ^^:> 

Better  plea 
Love  cannot  have,  than  that,  in  loving  thee, 
Glory  to  that  eternal  Peace  is  paid, 
Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 
As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gentle  hearts. 
His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  love  dies 
With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour. 
But  in  chaste  hearts,  uninfluenced  by  the  power 
Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a  deathless  flower. 
That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  Paradise. 

Michael  Angela 
274 


Platonic  Friendship 

The  Value  of  a  Woman's  Friendship       -c^      -c^ 

"  T  T  is  a  wonderful  advantage  to  a  man,  in  every  pursuit 
■^  or  avocation,  to  secure  an  adviser  in  a  sensible  woman. 
In  woman  there  is  at  once  a  subtile  delicacy  of  tact,  and 
a  plain  soundness  of  judgment,  which  are  rarely  combined 
to  an  equal  degree  in  man.  A  woman,  if  she  be  really 
your  friend,  will  have  a  sensitive  regard  for  your  character, 
honor,  repute.  She  will  seldom  counsel  you  to  do  a 
shabby  thing;  for  a  woman  friend  always  desires  to  be 
proud  of  you.  At  the  same  time,  her  constitutional 
timidity  makes  her  more  cautious  than  your  male  friend. 
She,  therefore,  seldom  counsels  you  to  do  an  imprudent 
thing.  By  friendships,  I  mean  pure  friendships,  —  those 
in  which  there  is  no  admixture  of  the  passion  of  love, 
except  in  the  married  state.  A  man 's  best  female  friend 
is  a  wife  of  good  sense  and  good  heart,  whom  he  loves,  and 
who  loves  him.  If  he  have  that,  he  need  not  seek  else- 
where. But  suppose  the  man  to  be  without  such  a  help- 
mate, female  friendship  he  must  have,  or  his  intellect 
will  be  without  a  garden,  and  there  will  be  many  an  im- 
heeded  gap  even  in  its  strongest  fence. 

"  Better  and  safer,  of  course,  are  such  friendships,  where 
disparities  of  years  or  circumstances  put  the  idea  of  love 
out  of  the  question.  Middle  life  has  rarely  this  advantage  : 
youth  and  age  have.  Moliere's  old  housekeeper  was  a 
great  help  to  his  genius;  and  Montaigne's  philosophy 
takes  both  a  gentler  and  loftier  character  of  wisdom  from 
the  date  in  which  he  finds,  in  Marie  de  Gournay,  an 
adopted  daughter." 

Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 

275' 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Pellsson  and  Mile,  de  Scudery  -oy     ^c>     -^^^^     <:^ 

TDELISSON  was  twenty-nine,  and  Mademoiselle  de 
-*■  Scudery  forty-five,  when  they  first  met.  Their 
instant  mutual  interest  deepened,  on  more  thorough  ac- 
quaintance, into  the  warmest  esteem  and  affection,  and  re- 
mained unshaken  for  over  forty  years.  The  perfection  of 
their  intimacy  was  known  to  every  one;  and  every  one  be- 
lieved in  its  entire  purity.  Cousin  says  it  is  touching  to 
see  these  two  noble  persons  made  so  happy  by  their  friend- 
ship, —  a  friendship  which  even  the  coarse  and  slanderous 
Tallement  respected  so  much  that  he  refrained  from  casting 
a  single  sneer  at  it.  The  story  of  PeHsson  's  imprisonment 
in  the  Bastile  is  known  to  the  whole  world  by  the  anecdote 
of  the  spider.  His  only  companion  during  those  wretched 
years  was  a  large  spider,  which  he  had  tamed  and  was 
accustomed  to  feed  and  play  with.  One  day  the  brute 
of  a  jailer  trod  on  him,  and  killed  him ;  and  Pelisson  wept. 
His  friend  employed  all  her  ingenuity,  during  his  con- 
finement, in  inventing  means  of  communication  with  him. 
"At  times,  when  he  was  ready  to  fall  into  despair,  a  few 
lines  would  reach  him,  and  bring  him  comfort."  At 
length  his  prison  was  opened,  and  fortune  smiled  again. 
At  his  death,  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery,  though  eighty- 
six  years  old,  wrote  and  published  a  simple  and  affecting 
memoir  of  him,  paying  a  deserved  tribute  to  his  character, 
in  which,  she  said,  there  reigned  a  singular  and  most 
charming  combination  of  tenderness,  deUcacy,  and  gen- 
erosity. 

William  Rounseville  Alger 


•276 


XI 
WHEN  FRIENDS   ARE   PARTED 


277 


v.; 


WHEN  FRIENDS  ARE 
PARTED 

A    Bachelor's     Complaint    of    the 

Behavior  of  Married  People 
Qua  Cursum  Ventus 
Friends  .  .  .  Old  friends 
The  Two  Friends 
Dr.  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Thrale 
The  Materials  for  a  Violent  Quarrel 
The  Lost  Leader 
False  Friends 
The  Death  of  Friends 
The  Pleasures  of  Memory 
David's  Lament  for  Jonathan 
Lycidas 

Musing  on  Companions  Gone 
Losses  Restored 
Thyrsis 
In  Memoriam 
Experto  Crede 
The  Old  Familiar  Faces 


•^     ^^ 


-C 


.^.. 


-U: 


'  I  "HEY  told  me,  Heracleitus,  they  told  me  you  were 
-■-    dead; 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears  to 

shed. 
I  wept  as  I  remembered  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking,  and  sent  him  down  the 

sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  gray  ashes  long,  long  ago  at  rest. 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales  awake. 
For  Death  he  taketh  all  away,  but  these  he  cannot  take. 
Callimachus  (Translation  of  W.  Cory) 


280 


A  Bachelor's    Complaint    of    the    Behavior   of 
Married  People      -ci>      -oy      ^^ix      <Ci^      -;>>. 

A  S  a  single  man,  I  have  spent  a  good  deal  of  my  time 
■^  ^  in  noting  down  the  infirmities  of  Married  People,  to 
console  myself  for  those  superior  pleasures  which  they 
tell  me  I  have  lost  by  remaining  as  I  am. 

I  cannot  say  that  the  quarrels  of  men  and  their  wives 
ever  made  any  great  impression  upon  me,  or  had  much 
tendency  to  strengthen  me  in  those  anti-social  resolutions 
which  I  took  up  long  ago  upon  more  substantial  consid- 
erations. What  oftenest  offends  me  at  the  house  of 
married  persons  where  I  visit,  is  an  error  of  quite  a  differ- 
ent description;  —  it  is  that  they  are  too  loving. 

Not  too  loving  neither:  that  does  not  explain  my  mean- 
ing. Besides,  why  should  that  offend  me?  The  very 
act  of  separating  themselves  from  the  rest  of  the  world, 
to  have  the  fuller  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society,  im- 
plies that  they  prefer  one  another  to  all  the  world.  .  .  . 
But  this  is  not  the  worst:  one  must  be  admitted  into 
their  familiarity  at  least,  before  they  can  complain  of 
inattention.  It  implies  visits,  and  some  kind  of  inter- 
course. But  if  the  husband  be  a  man  with  whom  you 
have  lived  on  a  friendly  footing  before  marriage  —  if  you 
did  not  come  in  on  the  wife's  side —  if  you  did  not  sneak 
into  the  house  in  her  train,  but  were  an  old  friend  in  fast 
habits  of  intimacy  before  their  courtship  was  so  much  as 
thought  on,  —  look  about  you  —  your  tenure  is  precarious 
—  before  a  twelvemonth  shall  roll  over  your  head,  you  shall 
find  your  friend  gradually  grow  cool  and  altered  towards 
281 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

you,  and  at  last  seek  opportunities  of  breaking  with  you. 
I  have  scarce  a  married  friend  of  my  acquaintance,  upon 
whose  firm  faith  I  can  rely,  whose  friendship  did  not 
commence  after  the  period  of  his  marriage.  With  some 
limitations,  they  can  endure  that;  but  that  the  good  man 
should  have  dared  to  enter  into  a  solemn  league  of  friend- 
ship in  which  they  were  not  consulted,  though  it  happened 
before  they  knew  him,  —  before  they  that  are  now  man  and 
wife  ever  met,  —  this  is  intolerable  to  them.  .  .  . 

Innumerable  are  the  ways  which  they  take  to  insult 
and  worm  you  out  of  their  husband 's  confidence.  Laugh- 
ing at  all  you  say  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  as  if  you  were  a 
queer  kind  of  fellow  that  said  good  things,  but  an  oddity, 
is  one  of  the  ways;  —  they  have  a  peculiar  kind  of  stare  for 
the  purpose;  —  till  at  last  the  husband,  who  used  to  defer 
to  your  judgment,  would  pass  over  some  excrescences  of 
understanding  and  manner  for  the  sake  of  a  general  vein 
of  observation  (not  quite  vulgar)  which  he  perceived  in 
you,  begins  to  suspect  whether  you  are  not  altogether 
a  humorist,  —  a  fellow  well  enough  to  have  consorted  with 
in  his  bachelor  days,  but  not  quite  so  proper  to  be  intro- 
duced to  ladies.  This  may  be  called  the  staring  way;  and 
is  that  which  has  oftenest  been  put  in  practice  against  me. 

Then  there  is  the  exaggerating  way,  or  the  way  of 
irony;  that  is  where  they  find  you  an  object  of  especial 
regard  with  their  husband,  who  is  not  so  easily  to  be 
shaken  from  the  lasting  attachment  founded  on  esteem 
which  he  has  conceived  towards  you,  by  never  qualified 
exaggerations  to  cry  up  all  that  you  say  or  do,  till  the 
good  man,  who  understands  well  enough  that  it  is  all  done 
in  compliment  to  him,  grows  weary  of  the  debt  of  grati- 
tude which  is  due  to  so  much  candour,  and  by  relaxing 
282 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

a  little  on  his  part,  and  taking  down  a  peg  or  two  in  his 
enthusiasm,  sinks  at  length  to  the  kindly  level  of  moderate 
esteem  —  that  "decent  affection  and  complacent  kind- 
ness "  towards  you,  where  she  herself  can  join  in  sympathy 
with  him  without  much  stretch  and  violence  to  her  sin- 
cerity. 

Another  way  (for  the  ways  they  have  to  accomplish 
so  desirable  a  purpose  are  infinite)  is,  with  a  kind  of 
innocent  simplicity,  continually  to  mistake  what  it  was 
which  first  made  their  husband  fond  of  you.  If  an  esteem 
for  something  excellent  in  your  moral  character  was  that 
which  riveted  the  chain  which  she  is  to  break,  upon  any 
imaginary  discovery  of  a  want  of  poignancy  in  your 
conversation,  she  will  cry,  "I  thought,  my  dear,  you  de- 
scribed your  friend,  Mr. as  a  great  wit?"    If,  on  the 

other  hand,  it  was  for  some  supposed  charm  in  your  con- 
versation that  he  first  grew  to  Uke  you,  and  was  content 
for  this  to  overlook  some  trifling  irregularities  in  your 
moral  deportment,  upon  the  first  notice  of  any  of  these 
she  as  readily  exclaims,  "This,  my  dear,  is  your  good 

Mr. !"    One  good  lady  whom  I  took  the  hberty  of 

expostulating  with  for  not  showing  me  quite  so  much 
respect  as  I  thought  due  to  her  husband 's  old  friend,  had 

the  candour  to  confess  to  me  that  she  often  heard  Mr, 

speak  of  me  before  marriage,  and  that  she  had  conceived 
a  great  desire  to  be  acquainted  with  me,  but  that  the  sight 
of  me  had  very  much  disappointed  her  expectations; 
for,  from  her  husband's  representations  of  me,  she  had 
formed  a  notion  that  she  was  to  see  a  fine,  tall,  oflScer-like 
looking  man  (I  use  her  very  words),  the  very  reverse  of 
which  proved  to  be  the  truth.  This  was  candid;  and  I 
had  the  civility  not  to  ask  her  in  return,  how  she  came  to 
283 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

pitch  upon  a  standard  of  personal  accomplishments  for 
her  husband's  friends  which  differed  so  much  from  his 
own ;  for  my  friend 's  dimensions  as  near  as  possible  ap- 
proximate to  mine;  he  standing  five  feet  five  in  his  shoes, 
in  which  I  have  the  advantage  of  him  by  about  half 
an  inch;  and  he  no  more  than  myself  exhibiting  any  indi- 
cations of  a  martial  character  in  his  air  or  countenance. 
These  are  some  of  the  mortifications  which  I  have 
encountered  in  the  absurd  attempt  to  visit  at  their  houses. 
To  enxmierate  them  all  would  be  a  vain  endeavour. 

Charles  Lamb 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus       <;:><:>     <:i.     <:>     ^^^ 

S  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 


A^ 


With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 
Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried;. 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side; 

i 

E  'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  sovd  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed. 

Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared  ! 
284 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

To  veer,  how  vain  !    On,  onward  strain. 

Brave  barks  !    In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  bUthe  breeze;  and  O  great  seas, 

Though  ne  'er,  that  earUest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought. 

One  purpose  hold  where  'er  they  fare,  — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas  ! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough 


Friends  ...  old  friends  ...         ^r^^      <:i,      ^;i„ 

"prRIENDS  ...  old  friends  .  .  . 

-*■     One  sees  how  it  ends. 

A  woman  looks 

Or  a  man  tells  lies 

And  the  pleasant  brooks 

And  the  quiet  skies. 

Ruined  with  brawling 

And  caterwauling,  — 

Enchant  no  more 

As  they  did  before, 

And  so  it  ends 

With  friends. 

285 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Friends  .  .  .  old  friends  .  .  . 
And  what  if  it  ends  ? 
Shall  we  dare  to  shirk 
What  we  live  to  learn  ? 
It  has  done  its  work, 
It  has  served  its  turn  ; 
And  forgive  and  forget 
Or  hanker  and  fret, 
We  can  be  no  more 
As  we  were  before. 
When  it  ends,  it  ends 
With  friends. 

Friends  .  .  .  old  friends  .  .  , 
So  it  breaks,  so  it  ends. 
There  let  it  rest ! 
It  has  fought  and  won, 
And  is  still  the  best 
That  either  has  done. 
Each  as  he  stands 
The  work  of  its  hands. 
Which  shall  be  more 
As  he  was  before  ?  .  .  . 
What  is  it  ends 
With  friends  ? 

W.  E.  Henley 

"\^rE  can  never  replace  a  friend.     When  a  man  is 
*  *     fortunate  enough  to  have  several,  he  finds  they 
are  all  different.     No  one  has  a  double  in  friendship. 

SchUler 
286 


When  Friends  are  Parted 


The  Two  Friends     -ci.     <:>    <:^    -oy     ^c>     <2y 

A  LAS  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
"^^-  But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  Ufe  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother  : 
They  parted  —  ne  'er  to  meet  again  ! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining  — 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder  ; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between  ;  — 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Samttel  Taylor  Coleridge 

Dr.  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Thrale    ^^    <^    ^^^^    ^:::v 

TN  the  beginning  of  1782  Johnson  was  suffering  from 
an  illness  which  excited  serious  apprehensions,  and 
he  went  to  Mrs.  Thrale 's,  as  the  only  house  where  he 
could  use  "all  the  freedom  that  sickness  requires."  She 
nursed  him  carefully,  and  expressed  her  feelings  with 
characteristic  vehemence  in  a  curious  journal  which  he 
had  encouraged  her  to  keep.  It  records  her  opinions 
287 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

about  her  affairs  and  her  family,  with  a  frankness  remark- 
able even  in  writing  intended  for  no  eye  but  her  own. 
"Here  is  Mr.  Johnson  very  ill,"  she  writes  on  the  ist  of 
February.  .  .  .  "What  shall  we  do  for  him?  If  I  lose 
him,  I  am  more  than  undone  —  friend,  father,  guardian, 
confidant !  God  give  me  health  and  patience !  What 
shall  I  do?"  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  sincerity 
of  these  sentiments,  though  they  seem  to  represent  a 
mood  of  excitement.  They  show  that  for  ten  months 
after  Thrale's  death,  Mrs.  Thrale  was  keenly  sensitive 
to  the  value  of  Johnson's  friendship. 

A  change,  however,  was  approaching.  Towards  the 
end  of  1780  Mrs.  Thrale  had  made  the  acquaintance  of 
an  Itahan  musician  named  Piozzi,  a  man  of  amiable  and 
honourable  character,  making  an  independent  income 
by  his  profession,  but  to  the  eyes  of  most  people  rather 
inoffensive  than  specially  attractive.  The  friendship 
between  Mrs.  Thrale  and  Piozzi .  rapidly  became  closer, 
and  by  the  end  of  1781  she  was  on  very  intimate  terms 
with  the  gentleman  whom  she  calls  "my  Piozzi."  He 
had  been  making  a  professional  trip  to  the  Continent 
during  part  of  the  period  since  her  husband's  death,  and 
upon  his  return  in  November,  Johnson  congratulated 
her  upon  having  two  friends  who  loved  her,  in  terms 
which  suggest  no  existing  feeling  of  jealousy.  During 
1782,  the  mutual  affection  of  the  lady  and  the  musician 
became  stronger,  and  in  the  autumn  they  had  avowed 
it  to  each  other,  and  were  discussing  the  question  of 
marriage.  .  .  . 

At  last,  in  the  end  of  August,  the  crisis  came.  Mrs. 
Thrale's  lawsuit  had  gone  against  her.  She  thought  it 
desirable  to  go  abroad  and  save  money.  It  had  more- 
288 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

over  been  "long  her  dearest  wish"  to  see  Italy,  with 
Piozzi  for  a  guide.  The  one  difficulty  (as  she  says  in  her 
journal  at  the  time),  was  that  it  seemed  equally  hard  to 
part  with  Johnson,  or  to  take  him  with  her  until  he  had 
regained  strength.  At  last,  however,  she  took  courage 
to  confide  to  him  her  plans  for  travel.  To  her  extreme 
annoyance,  he  fuUy  approved  of  them.  He  advised 
her  to  go ;  anticipated  her  return  in  two  or  three  years ; 
and  told  her  daughter  that  he  should  not  accompany 
them,  even  if  invited.  No  behaviour,  it  may  be  admitted, 
could  be  more  provoking  than  this  unforeseen  reasonable- 
ness. To  nerve  oneself  to  part  with  a  friend,  and  to  find 
the  friend  perfectly  ready,  and  all  your  battery  of  argu- 
ment thrown  away  is  most  vexatious.  The  poor  man 
should  have  begged  her  to  stay  with  him,  or  to  take  him 
with  her;  he  should  have  made  the  scene  which  she 
professed  to  dread,  but  which  would  have  been  the  best 
proof  of  her  power.  The  only  conclusion  which  could 
really  have  satisfied  her  —  though  she,  in  all  probability, 
did  not  know  it  —  would  have  been  an  outburst  which 
would  have  justified  a  rupture,  and  allowed  her  to  protest 
against  his  tyranny  as  she  now  proceeded  to  protest 
against  his  complacency. 

Johnson  wished  to  go  to  Italy  two  years  later ;  and  his 
present  willingness  to  be  left  was  probably  caused  by  a 
growing  sense  of  the  dangers  which  threatened  their 
friendship.  Mrs.  Thrale's  anger  appears  in  her  journal. 
He  had  never  really  loved  her,  she  declares ;  his  affection 
for  her  had  been  interested,  though  even  in  her  wrath 
she  admits  that  he  really  loved  her  husband;  he  cared 
less  for  her  conversation,  which  she  had  fancied  necessary 
to  his  existence,  than  for  her  "roast  beef  and  plumb 
u  289 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

pudden,"  which  he  now  devours  too  "dirtily  for  endur- 
ance." She  was  fully  resolved  to  go,  and  yet  she  could 
not  bear  that  her  going  should  fail  to  torture  the  friend 
whom  for  eighteen  years  she  had  loved  and  cherished  so 
kindly.  .  .  . 

The  truth  is  plain  enough.  Mrs.  Thrale  was  torn  by 
conflicting  feehngs.  She  still  loved  Johnson,  and  yet 
dreaded  his  certain  disapproval  of  her  strongest  wishes. 
She  respected  him,  but  was  resolved  not  to  follow  his 
advice.  She  wished  to  treat  him  with  kindness  and  to  be 
repaid  with  gratitude,  and  yet  his  presence  and  his  affec- 
tion were  full  of  intolerable  inconveniences.  When  an 
old  friendship  becomes  a  burden,  the  smaller  infirmities 
of  manner  and  temper,  to  which  we  once  submitted  will- 
ingly, become  intolerable.  She  had  borne  with  Johnson's 
modes  of  eating  and  with  his  rough  reproofs  to  herself 
and  her  friends  during  sixteen  years  of  her  married  life; 
and  for  nearly  a  year  of  her  widowhood  she  still  clung 
to  him  as  the  wisest  and  kindest  of  monitors.  His 
manners  had  undergone  no  spasmodic  change.  They 
became  intolerable  when,  for  other  reasons,  she  resented 
his  possible  interference,  and  wanted  a  very  different 
guardian  and  confidant;  and,  therefore,  she  wished  to 
part,  and  yet  wished  that  the  initiative  should  come 
from  him.   .  .  . 

After  much  suffering  in  mind  and  body,  Mrs.  Thrale 
had  at  last  induced  her  daughters  to  consent  to  her 
marriage  with  Piozzi.  She  sent  for  him  at  once,  and  they 
were  married  in  June,  1784.  A  painful  correspondence 
followed.  Mrs.  Thrale  announced  her  marriage  in  a 
friendly  letter  to  Johnson,  excusing  her  previous  silence 
on  the  ground  that  discussion  could  only  liave  caused 
290 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

them  pain.  The  revelation,  though  Johnson  could  not 
have  been  quite  unprepared,  produced  one  of  his  bursts 
of  fury.  "Madam,  if  I  interpret  your  letter  rightly," 
wrote  the  old  man,  "you  are  ignominiously  married.  If 
it  is  yet  undone,  let  us  once  more  talk  together.  If  you 
have  abandoned  your  children  and  your  rehgion,  God 
forgive  your  wickedness !  If  you  have  forfeited  your 
fame  and  your  country,  may  your  folly  do  no  further 
mischief !  If  the  last  act  is  yet  to  do,  I,  who  have  loved 
you,  esteemed  you,  reverenced  you,  and  served  you  —  I, 
who  long  thought  you  the  first  of  womankind  —  entreat 
that  before  your  fate  is  irrevocable,  I  may  once  more 
see  you !  I  was,  I  once  was,  madam,  most  truly  yours, 
Sam  Johnson." 

Mrs.  Thrale  repUed  with  spirit  and  dignity  to  this 
cry  of  blind  indignation,  speaking  of  her  husband  with 
becoming  pride,  and  resenting  the  unfortunate  phrase 
about  her  loss  of  fame.  She  ended  by  decUning  further 
intercourse  till  Johnson  could  change  his  opinion  of  Piozzi. 
Johnson  admitted  in  his  reply,  that  he  had  no  right  to 
resent  her  conduct;  expressed  his  gratitude  for  the 
kindness  which  had  "soothed  twenty  years  of  a  life 
radically  wretched,"  and  implored  her  ("superfluously" 
as  she  says)  to  induce  Piozzi  to  settle  in  England.  He 
then  took  leave  of  her  with  an  expression  of  sad  fore- 
bodings. Mrs.  Thrale,  now  Mrs.  Piozzi,  says  that  she 
replied  affectionately;  but  the  letter  is  missing.  The 
friendship  was  broken  off,  and  during  the  brief  remainder 
of  Johnson's  life,  the  Piozzis  were  absent  from  England. 

Austin  Dobson 


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The  Materials  for  a  Violent  Quarrel      ^^      ^^^ 

/^N  the  one  side  was  Addison  with  probably  an  instinc- 
^-^  tive  dislike  of  Pope's  character,  intensified  by  the 
injurious  reports  circulated  against  Pope  in  the  "Httle 
senate"  at  Button's ;  with  a  nature  somewhat  cold  and  re- 
served; and  with  something  of  literary  jealousy  partly 
arising  from  a  sense  of  what  was  due  to  his  acknowledged 
supremacy,  and  partly  from  a  perception  that  there  had 
appeared  a  very  formidable  "brother  near  the  throne." 
On  the  side  of  Pope,  there  was  an  eager  sensitiveness, 
ever  craving  for  recognition  and  praise,  with  an  abnormal 
irritability  prone  to  watch  for,  and  reluctant  to  forgive 
anything  in  the  shape  of  a  slight  or  an  injury.  Shghts 
and  injuries  he  already  deemed  himself  to  have  received, 
and  accordingly,  when  Tickell  in  1715  published  his 
translation  of  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad,  at  the  same  time 
with  his  own  translation  of  the  first  four  books,  his 
smothered  resentment  broke  into  a  blaze  at  what  he 
imagined  to  be  a  conspiracy  to  damage  his  poetical 
reputation.  .  .  .  We  can  scarcely  doubt  that  it  was 
this,  and  this  alone,  which  roused  him  to  such  glowing 
indignation,  and  inspired  him  to  write  the  character  of 
Atticus.  .  .  . 

The  following  is  the  first  published  version  of  the 
satire :  — 

"If  Dennis  writes  and  rails  in  furious  pet 
I'll  answer  Dennis  when  I  am  in  debt. 
If  meagre  Gildon  draw  his  meaner  quill, 
I  wish  the  man  a  dinner  and  sit  still. 
But  should  there  One  whose  better  stars  conspire 
To  form  a  bard,  and  raise  a  genius  higher, 
Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please, 
292 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

And  bom  to  live,  converse,  and  write  with  ease ; 
Should  such  a  one,  resolved  to  reign  alone, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  jealous  yet  with  scornful  eyes, 
Hate  him  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise, 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer. 
And  without  sneering  teach  the  rest  to  sneer. 
Alike  reserved  to  blame  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe  and  a  suspicious  friend, 
Fearing  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 
And  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged  ; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 
Just  hit  the  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike, 
Wfw  when  two  wits  on  rival  themes  contest, 
Approves  of  both,  but  likes  the  worst  the  best: 
Like  Cato,  gives  his  little  senate  laws 
And  sits  attentive  to  his  own  applause ; 
While  wits  and  templars  every  sentence  praise 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise : 
Who  would  not  laugh  if  such  a  man  there  be  ? 
Who  would  not  weep  if  Addison  were  he?" 

There  is  suflScient  corroborative  evidence  to  allow  us 
to  believe  that  these  lines  were  actually  written,  as  Pope 
says,  during  Addison's  lifetime;  and  if  they  were,  the 
character  of  the  satire  would  naturally  suggest  that  its 
motive  was  Addison's  supposed  conduct  in  the  matter 
of  the  two  translations  of  the  Iliad. 

Alfred  Ainger 

The  Lost  Leader  '^^^     <^     ^v>     -^y     -oy     'Oy 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us ; 
Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick,  in  his  coat,  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

293 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed. 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service  ! 

Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye. 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents. 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die  ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,    were    with    us,  —  they    watch    from 
their  graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen ; 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves  ! 
We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  through  his  presence ; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  —  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sorrow  for  angels. 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God  ! 
Life's  night  begins ;  let  him  never  come  back  to  us  ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain. 
Forced  praise  on  our  part,  —  the  glimmer  of  twUight, 

Never  glad,  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him,  —  strike  gallantly, 

Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  through  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  Heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne  ! 

Robert  Browning 


294 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

False  Friends      ^^^^    <^    "^^^    ^^    '^^    ^^>     ^:> 

Piers.     Shepheard,  I  list  none  accordaunce  make 
With  shepheard  that  does  the  right  way  forsake : 
And  of  the  twaine,  if  choice  were  to  me, 
Had  lever  my  foe  then  my  f reend  he  be ; 
For  what  concord  han  light  and  darke  sam  ? 
Or  what  peace  has  the  Lion  with  the  Lambe  ? 
Such  faitors,  when  their  false  harts  bene  hidde, 
Will  doe  as  did  the  Foxe  by  the  Kidde. 

Palinode.    Now,  Piers,  of  fellowship,  tell  us  that  saying : 
For  the  Ladde  can  keepe  both  our  flockes  from  straying. 

Piers.     Thilke  same  Kidde  (as  I  can  well  devise) 
Was  too  very  fooUsh  and  unwise ; 
For  on  a  tyme,  in  sommer  season, 
The  Gate  her  dame,  that  had  good  reason, 
Yode  forth  abroade  unto  the  greene  wood. 
To  brouze,  or  play,  or  what  shee  thought  good ; 
But,  for  she  had  a  motherly  care 
Of  her  young  sonne,  and  wit  to  beware, 
Shee  set  her  youngling  before  her  knee. 
That  was  both  fresh  and  lovely  to  see. 
And  full  of  favour  as  kidde  mought  be. 
His  vellet  head  began  to  shoote  out, 
And  his  wreathed  homes  gan  newly  sprout : 
The  blossoms  of  lust  to  bud  did  beginne. 
And  spring  forth  ranckly  under  his  chinne. 
'My  Sonne,'  (quoth  she  and  with  that  gan  weepe. 
For  careful  thoughts  in  her  heart  did  creepe) 
*  God  blesse  thee,  poore  Orphane  !  as  he  mought  me, 
295 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

And  send  thee  joy  of  thy  joUitee. 

Thy  father,'  (that  word  she  spake  with  payne, 

For  a  sigh  had  nigh  rent  her  heart  in  twaine) 

'  Kidde,  (quoth  shee)  thou  kenst  the  great  care 
I  have  of  thy  health  and  thy  welfare, 
Which  many  wyld  beastes  liggen  in  waite 
For  to  entrap  in  thy  tender  state  : 
But  most  the  Foxe,  maister  of  coUusion : 
For  he  has  voued  thy  last  confusion. 
For  —  thy,  my  Kiddie,  be  ruld  by  mee, 
And  never  give  trust  to  his  trecheree : 
And,  if  he  chaunce  come  when  I  am  abroade, 
Sperre  the  yate  fast  for  feare  of  fraude : 
Ne  for  all  his  worst,  nor  for  his  best, 
Open  the  do  re  at  his  request.' 

So  schooled  the  Gate  her  wanton  sonne. 
That  answered  his  mother,  all  should  be  done. 
Tho  went  the  pensife  Damme  out  of  dore. 
And  chaunst  to  stomble  at  the  threshold  flore  : 
Her  stombling  steppe  some  what  her  amazed, 
(For  such,  as  signes  of  ill  luck,  bene  dispraised) ; 
Yet  forth  shee  yode,  thereat  halfe  aghast : 
And  Kidde  the  dore  sperred  after  her  fast. 
It  was  not  long,  after  shee  was  gone. 
But  the  false  Foxe  came  to  the  dore  anone : 
Not  as  a  Foxe,  for  then  he  had  be  kend. 
But  all  as  a  poore  pedler  he  did  wend, 
Bearing  a  trusse  of  tryfles  at  hys  backe, 
As  bells,  and  babes,  and  glasses,  in  hys  packe : 
A  Biggen  he  had  got  about  his  brayne. 
For  in  his  headpeace  he  felt  a  sore  payne : 
296 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

His  hinder  heele  was  wrapt  in  a  clout, 
For  with  great  cold  he  had  gotte  the  gout. 
There  at  the  dore  he  cast  me  downe  hys  pack, 
And  layd  him  downe,  and  groned,  'Alack  !  Alack ! 
Ah,  deare  Lord  !  and  sweete  Saint  Charitee  ! 
That  some  good  body  woulde  once  pitie  mee  ! ' 

Well  heard  Kiddie  al  this  sore  constraint, 
And  lenged  to  know  the  cause  of  his  complaint : 
Tho,  creeping  close  behind  the  Wickets  clink, 
Prevclie  he  peeped  out  through  a  chinck, 
Yet  not  so  previlie  but  the  Foxe  him  spyed ; 
For  deceitful  meaning  is  double  eyed. 

'Ah,  good  young  maister  !'  (then  gan  he  crye) 
'Jesus  blesse  that  sweete  face  I  espye. 
And  keepe  your  corpse  from  the  careful  stounds 
That  in  my  carrion  carcas  abounds.' 

The  Kidd,  pitying  hys  heavincsse, 
Asked  the  cause  of  hys  great  distresse. 
And  also  who,  and  whence  that  he  were  ? 

Tho  he,  that  had  well  ycond  his  Icre, 
Thus  medled  his  talke  with  many  a  teare : 
'Sicke,  sicke,  alas  !  and  little  lack  of  dead. 
But  I  be  relieved  by  your  beastlyhead. 
I  am  a  poore  sheepe,  albe  my  coloure  donne, 
For  with  long  traveile  I  am  brent  in  the  sonne : 
And,  if  that  my  Grandsire  me  sayd  be  true, 
Sicker,  I  am  very  sybbe  to  you : 
So  be  your  goodlihead  doe  not  disdayne 
The  base  kinred  of  so  simple  swaine. 
Of  mercye  and  favour,  then,  I  you  pray 
With  your  ayd  to  fore-stall  my  neere  decaye.* 

Tho  out  of  his  packe  a  glasse  he  tooke, 
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The  Book  of  Friendship 

Wherein  while  Kiddie  unawares  did  looke, 
He  was  so  enamored  with  the  newell, 
That  nought  he  deemed  deare  for  the  Jewell : 
Tho  opened  he  the  dore,  and  in  came 
The  false  Foxe,  as  he  were  starke  lame : 
His  tayle  he  clapt  betwixt  his  legs  twayne, 
Lest  he  should  be  descried  by  his  trayne. 

Being  within,  the  Kidde  made  him  good  glee, 
All  for  the  love  of  the  glasse  he  did  see. 
After  his  chere  the  Pedler  can  chat, 
And  tell  many  lesinges  of  this  and  that. 
And  how  he  could  shewe  many  a  fine  knack  : 
Tho  shewed  his  ware  and  opened  his  packe, 
All  save  a  bell,  which  he  left  behind 
In  the  basket  for  the  Kidde  to  fynd : 
Which  when  the  Kidde  stooped  downe  to  catch, 
He  popt  him  in,  and  his  basket  did  latch : 
Ne  stayed  he  once  the  dore  to  make  fast, 
But  ranne  away  with  him  in  all  hast. 

Home  when  the  doubtful  Damme  had  her  hyde, 
She  mought  see  the  dore  stand  open  wyde. 
All  agast,  lowdly  she  gan  to  call 
Her  Kidde ;  but  he  nould  answere  at  all : 
Tho  on  the  flore  she  saw  the  merchaundise 
Of  which  her  sonne  had  sette  to  deere  a  prise 
What  helpe  ?  her  Kidde  shee  knewe  well  was  gone : 
Shee  weeped,  and  wayled,  and  made  great  mone. 
Such  end  had  the  Kidde,  for  he  nould  warned  be 
Of  craft,  coloured  with  simplicitie: 
And  such  end,  perdie,  does  all  hem  remayne. 
That  of  such  falsers  freendship  bene  fayne. 

Edmund  Spenser 
298 


When  Friends  are  Parted 


The  Death  of  Friends     ^::>     ^^^^     ^;:>     -o     -si^ 

/^UR  dying  friends  come  o  'er  us  like  a  cloud, 
^-^  To  damp  our  brainless  ardours ;  and  abate 
That  glare  of  life  which  often  bUnds  the  wise. 
Our  dying  friends  are  pioneers,  to  smooth 
Our  rugged  pass  to  death ;  to  break  those  bars 
Of  terror  and  abhorrence  Nature  throws 
'Cross  our  obstructed  way ;  and  thus  to  make 
Welcome  as  safe,  our  port  from  every  storm. 
Each  friend  by  fate  snatched  from  us  is  a  plume, 
Pluck  'd  from  the  wing  of  human  vanity, 
Which  makes  us  stoop  from  our  aerial  heights 
And,  damp'd  with  omen  of  our  own  decease, 
On  drooping  pinions  of  ambition  lower 'd, 
Just  skim  Earth 's  surface,  ere  we  break  it  up, 
O  'er  putrid  earth  to  scratch  a  Httle  dust 
And  save  the  world  a  nuisance.     Smitten  friends 
Are  angels  sent  on  errands  full  of  love ; 
For  us  they  languish  and  for  us  they  die. 
And  shall  they  languish,  shall  they  die,  in  vain  ? 
Ungrateful,  shall  we  grieve  their  hovering  shades 
Which  wait  the  revolution  in  our  hearts  ? 
Shall  we  disdain  their  silent  soft  address. 
Their  posthumous  advice  and  pious  prayer  ? 
Senseless  as  herds  that  graze  their  hallow'd  graves. 
Tread  under-foot  their  agonies  and  groans. 
Frustrate  their  anguish  and  destroy  their  deaths  ?         * 

Edward  Young 


299 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

The  Pleasures  of  Memory   <i.'     -c^^     <c^      -<:^ 

/^FT  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
^-^  To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a  friend ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening-walk  unseen, 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green ; 
To  hail  the  spot  where  first  their  friendship  grew, 
And  heaven  and  nature  opened  to  their  view  ! 
Oft,  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell, 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  life  so  well ! 

Oh  thou  !  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  share 
From  Reason 's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each  care ; 
With  whom,  alas  !  I  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble  walks  of  happiness  below ; 
If  thy  blest  nature  now  unites  above 
An  angel 's  pity  with  a  brother 's  love. 
Still  o  'er  my  life  preserve  thy  mild  controul, 
Correct  my  views,  and  elevate  my  soul ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind. 
Devout  yet  cheerful,  active  yet  resigned ; 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  whose  heart  knew  no  disguise, 
Whose  blameless  wishes  never  aimed  to  rise. 
To  meet  the  changes  Time  and  Chance  present 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 

Samuel  Rogers 


300 


When  Friends  are  Parted 


David's  Lament   for  Jonathan      ^c>     '«;:i.     -^s,^ 

T^HY  glory,  O  Israel, 
''■    Is  slain  upon  thy  high  places  I 
How  are  the  mighty  — 
Fallen! 


Tell  it  not  in  Gath, 

Publish  it  not  in  the  streets  of  Ashkelon ; 

Lest  the  daughters  of  the  Philistines  rejoice, 
Lest  the  daughters  of  the  uncircumcised  triumph. 

Ye  mountains  of  Gilboa,  let  there  be  no  dew  nor  rain 

upon  you, 
Neither  fields  of  offerings : 

For  there  the  shield  of  the  mighty  was  vilely  cast 

away. 
The  shield  of  Saul,  as  of  one  not  anointed  with  oil. 

From  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

From  the  fat  of  the  mighty. 

The  bow  of  Jonathan  turned  not  back. 
And  the  sword  of  Saul  returned  not  empty. 

Saul  and  Jonathan  were  lovely  and  pleasant  in  their 

lives, 
And  in  their  death  they  were  not  divided ; 

They  were  swifter  than  eagles. 

They  were  stronger  than  lions. 

Ye  daughters  of  Israel, 
Weep  over  Saul, 

301 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Who  clothed  you  in  scarlet  delicately, 

Who  put  ornaments  of  gold  upon  your  apparel. 

How  are  the  mighty  — 

Fallen  in  the  midst  of  the  battle  ! 

O  Jonathan, 

Slain  upon  thy  high  places, 

I  am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother  Jonathan  : 
Very  pleasant  hast  thou  been  unto  me : 

Thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful, 

Passing  the  love  of  women. 

How  are  the  mighty  — 

Fallen  ! 
And  the  weapons  of  war  — 

Perished  ! 

From  the  Book  of  Judges 

Lycidas      '^^      ^^^      ^^^      '^i>'      <^      ^^s*'      ^:> 

"C^OR  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
■*■     Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill ; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyeUds  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Battening  her  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward  Heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  niral  ditties  were  not  mute, 
302 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute ; 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long : 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  oh  !  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepard,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepard 's  ear. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills. 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  grey : 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

John  Milton 


303 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

Musing  on  Companions  Gone  -s^     ^c>    -^^i,.    ^:::> 

A  ^  rHEN,  musing  on  companions  gone, 

We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone, 
Something,  my  friend,  we  yet  may  gain ; 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  this  pain : 
It  soothes  the  love  of  lonely  rest. 
Deep  in  each  gentler  heart  impress 'd. 
'Tis  silent  amid  worldly  toils. 
And  stifled  soon  by  mental  broils ; 
But,  in  a  bosom  thus  prepared, 
Its  still  small  voice  is  often  heard, 
Whispering  a  mingled  sentiment, 
'Twixt  resignation  and  content. 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

Losses  Restored     o      <::i>-     ^cri.-     <::>     <:iy     ^;:y 

"\  1  rHEN  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time 's  waste : 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow. 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death 's  dateless  night. 
And  weep  afresh  love 's  long  since  cancell  'd  woe. 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish  'd  sight : 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o  'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan. 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 

William  Shakespeare 

304 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

Thyrsis      ^'v^k      '"^      '^^rv      'Cy      <i>'      '^::>      <^ 

npOO  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here, 
-*-    But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each  flower,  each  stick ; 

And  with  the  country-folk  acquaintance  made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new-built  rick. 
Here,  too,  our  shepherd-pipes  we  first  assay 'd. 
Ah  me  !  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost,  my  shepherd 's  holiday  ! 
Needs  must  I  lose  them,  needs  with  heavy  heart 
Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart ; 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went  away. 

It  irk'd  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields. 

He  loved  his  mates ;  but  yet  he  could  not  keep, 
For  that  a  shadow  lour'd  on  the  fields. 
Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly  sheep. 
Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  fill  'd  his  head. 
He  went ;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 
Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground ; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead.  .  .  . 

Yes,  thou  art  gone  !  and  round  me  too  the  night 
In  ever-nearing  circle  weaves  her  shade. 

I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the  day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 
The  cheek  grown  thin,  the  brown  hair  sprent  with 

grey; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausef ully  upon  Ufe  's  headlong  train ;  — 

X  305 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning  dew, 
The  heart  less  bounding  at  emotion  new, 
And  hope,  once  crush 'd,  less  quick  to  spring  again. 

Matthew  Arnold 
In  memory  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

In  Memoriam      "^^      ^=^      ^^^      "^^      '^^      ^^^ 

T  CLIMB  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 
■*■  Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 

I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 
Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold. 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheep  walk  up  the  windy  wold ; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill; 

Nor  quarry  trenched  along  the  hill, 
And  haunted  by  the  wrangUng  daw. 

Unwatched,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 

The  tender  blossom  flutter  down ; 

Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown, 
This  maple  burn  itself  away ; 

Unloved,  the  sunflower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 
306 


When  Friends  are  Parted 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 
The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain. 
At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove. 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 
A  fresh  association  blow. 
And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 

Familiar  to  the  stranger 's  child ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 

Alfred  Tennyson 

Experto  Crede      -<;^      -ov      '■c^      -"O      <:iy      ";:> 

A /TEN  lean  on  pleasant  staves  for  many  years, 
■^    ■*■  And  gladly  use  them  day  by  day ; 
So  sweet  the  journey  is,  they  have  no  fears 
How  long  and  weary  is  the  way  — 

Until  the  staff  is  broken  —  then  they  know 
How  much  they  leant  upon  their  friend ; 

And  o  'er  the  dull  hard  way  they  sadly  go, 
And  speed  them  forward  to  the  end. 

E.  H.  Coleridge 

307 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces     <::^    -v^^    ^ci^    <>y    <:::> 

T  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
■*■  In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  famiUar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing. 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ! 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me  now,  I  must  not  see  her; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghostlike  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father 's  dwelling  ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces,  — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me. 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Charles  Lamb 


308 


XII 
FRIENDSHIP 


309 


KH 

r^ 

Pra 

111 

m 

M^^&>m 

Miili'iJiiij  ,.\LjiLi,.^,i:.u,:aii'i;,' ,  ,ili..iiUi!i-.I-.;...i.;  ,„.li.ll 


l---;.!^^*/%i^-c    •^•v-/;;-,.«>v^^-:^A^^  Wn7^>^:»-=:"--:%ft^ 


r\  TAN-FACED  prairie  boy, 

^-^  Before  you  came  to  camp,  came  many  a  welcome 

gift, 
Praises  and  presents  came  and  nourishing  food,  tUl  at 

last  among  the  recruits, 
You  came,   taciturn,   with  nothing  to  give  —  we  but 

look'd  on  each  other. 
When  lo !  more  than  all  the  gifts  of  the  world  you  gave 

me. 

Wali  Whitman 


312 


Friendship       <^       o       "v^       <^       <:iy      -cy 

TpHERE  is  nothing  to  which  nature  seems  so  much 
"*■    to  have  inclined  us,  as  to  society ;   and  Aristotle  says 
that  the  good  legislators  had  more  respect  to  friendship 
than  to  justice. 

The  ancient  Menander  declared  him  to  be  happy 
that  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with  but 
the  shadow  of  a  friend;  and  doubtless  he  had  good 
reason  to  say  so,  especially  if  he  spoke  by  experience; 
for  in  good  earnest,  if  I  compare  all  the  rest  of  ray  life, 
though,  thanks  be  to  God,  I  have  passed  my  time  pleas- 
antly enough,  and  at  my  ease,  and  the  loss  of  such  a 
friend  excepted,  free  from  any  grievous  affiction,  and  in 
great  tranquillity  of  mind,  having  been  contented  with 
my  natural  and  original  commodities,  without  being 
soUcitous  after  others ;  if  I  should  compare  it  all,  I  say, 
with  the  four  years  I  had  the  happiness  to  enjoy  the 
sweet  society  of  this  excellent  man,  'tis  nothing  but 
smoke,  and  obscure  and  tedious  night.     From  the  day 

that  I  lost  him, 

"Quem  semper  acerbum, 
Semper  honoratum  (sic,  di,  voluistis)  habebo," 

I  have  only  led  a  languishing  Ufe ;  and  the  very  pleas- 
ures that  present  themselves  to  me,  instead  of  adminis- 
tering anything  of  consolation,  double  my  affliction  for 
his  loss.  We  were  halves  throughout,  and  to  that  degree, 
that  methinks,  by  outliving  him,  I  defraud  him  of  his 

part. 

"  Nee  fas  esse  ulla  me  voluptate  hie  f mi 
Decrevi,  tantisper  dtmi  ille  abest  meus  particeps." 

I  was  so  grown  and  accustomed  to  be  always  his  double 
313 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

in  all  places  and  in  all  things,  that  methinks  I  am  no 
more  than  half  of  myself. 

"lUam  meae  si  partem  animae  tulit 
Maturior  vis,  quid  raoror  latera? 
Nee  carus  aeque,  nee  superstes 
Integer  ?     lUe  dies  utramque 
Duxit  ruinam." 

There  is  no  action  or  imagination  of  mine  wherein  I  do 
not  miss  him ;  as  I  know  that  he  would  have  missed  me : 
for  as  he  surpassed  me  by  infinite  degrees  in  virtue  and 
all  other  accomplishments,  so  he  also  did  in  the  duties 
of  friendship. 

Montaigne 


The  Hare  with  Many  Friends    ^^    ^^y    ^^^^    -v> 

T^RIENDSHIP,  Uke  love,  is  but  a  name, 
"*■     Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 
The  child  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 
'Tis  thus  in  friendship ;  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 

A  Hare,  who,  in  a  civil  way. 
Complied  with  everything,  Uke  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train, 
Who  haunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the  plain. 
Her  care  was,  never  to  offend. 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 

As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn, 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  cries, 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies : 

314 


Friendship 

She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath ; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death ; 
She  doubles,  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  roimd ; 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way, 
Half  dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay. 
What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  Horse  appeared  in  view ! 
'Let  me,'  says  she,  'your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 
To  friendship  every  burden's  Ught.' 
The  Horse  repUed :  '  Poor  honest  Puss, 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus ; 
Be  comforted ;  reUef  is  near. 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear.' 

She  next  the  stately  Bull  implored ; 
And  thus  rephed  the  mighty  lord. 
'  Since  every  beast  aUve  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offence,  pretend, 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend ; 
Love  calls  me  hence ;  a  favourite  cow 
Expects  me  near  yon  barley-mow : 
And  when  a  lady's  in  the  case, 
You  know,  all  other  things  give  place. 
To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind ; 
But  see,  the  Goat  is  just  behind.' 

The  Goat  remarked  her  pulse  was  high, 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye ; 
'My  back,'  says  he,  'may  do  you  harm ; 
The  Sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm.' 

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The  Book  of  Friendship 

The  Sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained ; 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears, 
For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  well  as  hares. 

She  now  the  trotting  Calf  addressed, 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 
'Shall  I,'  says  he,  'of  tender  age. 
In  this  important  care  engage  ? 
Older  and  abler  passed  you  by ; 
How  strong  are  those,  how  weak  am  I ! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence. 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me,  then.    You  know  my  heart. 
But  dearest  friends,  alas  !  must  part ! 
How  shall  we  all  lament.     Adieu  ! 
For  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view.' 

John  Gay 

Two  Views  of  Friendship    ^c>    ^c^    ^cr^^    -o    <:^ 

Christopher  North.  Once  I  had  a  friend  —  and  to  me  he 
was  a  priest.  He  has  been  so  long  dead,  that  it  seems  to 
me  now,  that  I  have  almost  forgotten  him  —  and  that  I 
remember  only  that  he  once  Uved,  and  that  I  once  loved 
him  with  all  my  affections.  One  such  friend  alone  can  ever 
from  the  very  nature  of  things,  belong  to  any  one  human 
being  however  endowed  by  nature  and  beloved  of  Heaven. 
He  is  felt  to  stand  between  us  and  our  upbraiding  con- 
science. In  his  Ufe  lies  the  strength  —  the  power  —  the 
virtue  of  ours,  —  in  his  death,  the  better  half  of  our 
whole  being  seems  to  expire.  Such  communion  of  spirit, 
perhaps,  can  only  be  in  existences  rising  toward  their 
meridian ;  as  the  hills  of  life  cast  longer  shadows  in  the 
316 


Friendship 

westering  hours,  we  grow  —  I  should  not  say  more  sus- 
picious, for  that  may  be  too  strong  a  word  —  but  more 
silent,  more  self-wrapt,  more  circumspect  —  less  sym- 
pathetic even  with  kindred  and  congenial  natures  (who 
will  sometimes,  in  our  almost  sullen  moods,  or  theirs, 
seem  as  if  they  were  kindred  and  congenial  no  more  — 
less  devoted  to  Spirituals,  that  is,  to  Ideas,  so  tender,  true, 
beautiful,  and  subUme,  that  they  seem  to  be  inhabitants 
of  heaven  though  born  of  earth,  and  to  float  between 
the  two  regions  angeUcal  and  divine  —  yet  felt  to  be 
mortal,  himian  still  —  the  Ideas  of  passions,  desires  and 
affections,  and  "impulses  that  come  to  us  in  solitude"), 
to  whom  we  breathe  out  our  souls  in  silence  or  in  almost 
silent  speech,  in  utterly  mute  adoration,  or  in  broken 
hymns  of  feeling,  believing  that  the  holy  enthusiasm  will 
go  with  us  through  life  to  the  grave,  or  rather,  knowing 
not,  or  feeling  not,  that  the  grave  is  anything  more  for 
us  than  a  mere  word  with  a  somewhat  mournful  sound, 
and  that  life  is  changeless,  cloudless,  unfading  as  the 
heaven  of  heavens,  that  lies  to  the  uplifted  fancy  in  blue 
immortal  calm,  round  the  throne  of  the  Eternal  Jehovah. 


The  Shepherd.  I  weel  believe  that  only  the  shears  o' 
Fate  will  ever  cut  the  cord  o'  our  friendship.  I  fancy  it's 
just  the  same  wi'  you  as  wi'  me,  we  maun  like  ane  anither 
whether  we  wull  or  no  —  and  that's  the  sort  o'  friend- 
ship for  me  —  for  it  flourishes  like  a  mountain  flower,  in 
all  weathers  —  braid  and  bricht  in  the  sunshine  and  just 
faulded  up  a  wee  in  the  sleet,  sae  that  it  micht  maist  be 
thocht  dead,  but  fu'  o'  life  in  its  cosy  bield  ahint  the 
mossy  stone,  and  peering  out  again  in  a'  its  beauty,  at 
the  sang  o'  the  rising  laverock. 

317 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

North.  This  world's  friendships,  James  — 
Shepherd.  Are  £is  cheap  as  crockery,  and  as  easily 
broken  by  a  fa'.  They  seldom  can  bide  a  clash,  without 
fleein'  intU  flinders.  O  sire,  but  maist  men's  hearts, 
and  women's  too,  are  like  toom  nuts  —  nae  kernel,  and 
a  splutter  o'  fushionless  dust.  I  sometimes  canna  help 
thinkin'  that  there's  nae  future  state. 

John  Wilson 

On  Friendship      ^ci^      <^      -<cy      ^::y      "^^y      ^;> 

nPHE  earth-born  clod  who  hugs  his  idol  pelf, 
-■■    His  only  friends  are  Mammon  and  himself ; 
The  drunken  sots,  who  want  the  art  to  think. 
Still  cease  from  friendship  when  they  cease  from  drink. 
The  empty  fop  who  scarce  for  man  will  pass, 
Ne'er  sees  a  friend  but  when  he  views  his  glass. 
Friendship  first  springs  from  sympathy  of  mind, 
Which  to  complete  the  virtues  all  combine, 
And  only  found  'mongst  men  who  can  espy 
The  merits  of  his  friend  without  envy. 
Thus  all  pretending  friendship's  but  a  dream, 
Whose  base  is  not  reciprocal  esteem. 

Allan  Ramsay 

A  Friend      "^^^      ^^^>      *^^     ^^^^      "^^      ^^      "^^ 

/^F  all  the  heavenly  gifts  that  mortal  men  commend, 
^-^  What  trusty  treasure  in  the  world  can  countervail 

a  friend  ? 
Our  health  is  soon  decayed;   goods,  casual,  light  and 

.  vain ; 
Broke  have  we  seen  the  force  of  power,  and  honor  suffer 

stain. 

318 


Friendship 

In  body's  lust  man  doth  resemble  but  base  brute ; 

True  virtue  gets  and  keeps  a  friend,  good  guide  of  our 

pursuit. 
Whose  hearty  zeal  with  ours  accords  in  every  case ; 
No  term  of  time,  no  space  of  place,  no  storm  can  it  deface. 

Nicholas  Grimoald 

The  Memory  of  the  Heart      <:iy     <i^     <:^     ^;:> 

TF  stores  of  dry  and  learned  lore  we  gain, 

•*■  We  keep  them  in  the  memory  of  the  brain ; 

Names,    things,   and   facts,  —  whatc'er   we   knowledge 

call,  — 
There  is  the  common  ledger  for  them  all ; 
And  images  on  this  cold  surface  traced 
Make  slight  impression,  and  are  soon  effaced. 

But  we've  a  page,  more  glowing  and  more  bright, 
On  which  our  friendship  and  our  love  to  write ; 
That  these  may  never  from  the  soul  depart. 
We  trust  them  to  the  memory  of  the  heart. 
There  is  no  dimming,  no  effacement  there ; 
Each  new  pulsation  keeps  the  record  clear ; 
Warm,  golden  letters  all  the  tablet  fill, 
Nor  lose  their  lustre  till  the  heart  stands  still. 

Daniel  Webster 

The  Limitations  of  Friendship       <:i^      ^^i-       ^^^ 

TTUMAN  friendship  must  have  limits,  just  because  it 
■'■■'■  is  human.  It  is  subject  to  loss,  and  is  often  to 
some  extent  the  sport  of  occasion.  It  lacks  perma- 
nence; misunderstandings  can  estrange  us:  slander  can 
embitter  us:   death  can  bereave  us.     We  are  left  very 

319 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

much  the  victims  of  circumstances;  for  like  everything 
earthly  it  is  open  to  change  and  decay.  No  matter 
hov.-  close  and  spiritual  the  intercourse,  it  is  not  per- 
manent, and  never  certain.  If  nothing  else,  the  shadow 
of  death  is  always  on  it.  Tennyson  describes  how  he 
dreamed  that  he  and  his  friend  should  pass  through 
the  world  together,  loving  and  trusting  each  other,  and 
together  pass  out  into  the  silence. 

"Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal, 
And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand, 
And  take  us  as  a  single  soul." 

It  was  a  dream  at  the  best.  Neither  to  live  together 
nor  to  die  together  could  blot  out  the  spiritual  limits  of 
friendship.  Even  in  the  closest  of  human  relations, 
when  two  take  each  other  for  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  they  may 
be  made  one  flesh,  but  never  one  soul.  Singleness  is 
the  ultimate  fact  of  human  life.  "  The  race  is  run  by 
one  and  one,  and  never  by  two  and  two." 

In  reUgion,  in  the  deepest  things  of  the  spirit,  these 
Umits  we  have  been  considering  are  perhaps  felt  most  of 
all.  With  even  a  friend  who  is  as  one's  own  soul,  we  can- 
not seek  to  make  a  spiritual  impression,  without  realizing 
the  constraint  of  his  separate  individuahty.  We  cannot 
break  through  the  barriers  of  another's  distinct  existence. 
If  we  have  ever  sought  to  lead  to  a  higher  life  another 
whom  we  love,  we  must  have  been  made  to  feel  that  it 
does  not  all  rest  with  us,  that  he  is  a  free  moral  being,  and 
that  only  by  voluntarily  yielding  his  heart  and  will  and 
life  to  the  King,  can  he  enter  the  Kingdom.  We  are 
forced  to  respect  his  personahty.  We  may  watch  and 
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Friendship 

pray  and  speak,  but  we  cannot  save.  There  is  almost  a 
sort  of  spiritual  indecency  in  unveiling  the  naked  soul, 
in  attempting  to  invade  the  personality  of  another  Hfe. 
There  is  sometimes  a  spiritual  vivisection  which  some 
attempt  in  the  name  of  religion,  which  is  immoral.  Only 
holier  eyes  than  ours,  only  more  reverent  hands  than  ours, 
can  deal  with  the  spirit  of  a  man.  He  is  a  separate  indi- 
vidual, with  all  the  rights  of  an  individual.  We  may  have 
many  points  of  contact  with  him,  the  contact  of  mind  on 
mind,  and  heart  on  heart ;  we  may  even  have  rights  over 
him,  the  rights  of  love;  but  he  can  at  will  insulate  his 
life  from  ours.  Here  also,  as  elsewhere  when  we  go  deep 
enough  into  life,  it  is  God  and  the  single  human  soul. 

The  lesson  of  all  true  living  in  every  sphere  is  to  learn 
our  own  limitations.  It  is  the  first  lesson  in  art,  to  work 
within  the  essential  limitations  of  the  particular  art. 
But  in  dealing  with  other  Uves  it  is  perhaps  the  hardest 
of  all  lessons,  to  learn,  and  submit  to,  our  limitations. 
It  is  the  crowning  grace  of  faith,  when  we  are  willing  to 
submit,  and  to  leave  those  we  love  in  the  hands  of  God, 
as  we  leave  ourselves.  Nowhere  else  is  the  limit  of  friend- 
ship so  deeply  cut  as  here  in  the  things  of  the  spirit. 

"No  man  can  save  his  brother's  soul, 
'  Nor  pay  his  brother's  debt." 

Human  friendship  has  limits  because  of  the  real  great- 
ness of  man.  We  are  too  big  to  be  quite  comprehended 
by  another.  There  is  always  something  in  us  left  unex- 
plained, and  unexplored.  We  do  not  even  know  our- 
selves, much  less  can  another  hope  to  probe  into  the 
recesses  of  our  being,  friendship  has  a  limit,  because  of 
the  infinite  element  in  the  soul.  It  is  hard  to  kick  against 
Y  321 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

the  pricks,  but  they  are  meant  to  drive  us  toward  the  true 
end  of  living.  It  is  hard  to  be  brought  up  by  a  limit  along 
any  line  of  life,  but  it  is  designed  to  send  us  to  a  deeper 
and  richer  development  of  our  life.  Man's  Umitation  is 
God's  occasion.  Only  God  can  fully  satisfy  the  hungry 
heart  of  man. 

Hugh  Black 
Copyright,  1898,  by  Fleming  H.  Revell  Company. 

In  Haste     ^^^      ^^^^      "^^      ^^^      ^^>      '^^     '^^ 

"C'ROM  far,  from  eve  and  morning, 
-*•     And  yon  twelve-winded  sky, 
The  stuff  to  life  to  knit  me 
Blew  hither ;  here  am  I. 

Now  —  for  a  breath  I  tarry, 

Nor  yet  disperse  apart  — 
Take  my  hand  quick  and  teU  me, 

What  have  you  in  your  heart  ? 

Speak  now,  and  I  will  answer ; 

How  shall  I  help  you,  say ; 
Ere  to  the  wind 's  twelve  quarters 

I  take  my  endless  way  ? 

A.  E.  Housman 


/'~*ONVEY  thy  love  to  thy  friend,  as  an  arrow  to  the 
^^  mark,  to  stick  there  ;  not  as  a  ball  against  the 
waU  to  rebound  back  to  thee. 

Francis  Quarles 
322 


Friendship 

The  Basis  of  Friendship  -=::>     'O     -^::y     ^c>     <cy 

"PRIENDSHIP  Aristotle  defines  as  "  unanimity  on 
■*■  questions  of  the  public  advantage  and  on  all  that 
touches  life."  This  unanimity,  however,  is  very  differ- 
ent from  agreement  in  opinion.  It  is  seeing  things  from 
the  same  point  of  view  ;  or,  more  accurately,  it  is  the 
appreciation  of  each  other's  interests  and  aims.  The 
whole  tendency  of  Aristotle  thus  far  has  been  to  develop 
individuality ;  to  make  each  man  different  from  every 
other  man.  Conventional  people  are  all  alike.  But 
the  people  who  have  cherished  ends  of  their  own,  and 
who  make  all  their  choices  with  reference  to  these  in- 
wardly cherished  ends,  become  highly  differentiated. 
The  more  individual  your  life  becomes,  the  fewer  people 
there  are  who  can  understand  you.  The  man  who  has 
ends  of  his  own  is  bound  to  be  unintelligible  to  the  man 
who  has  no  such  ends,  and  is  merely  drifting  with  the 
crowd.  Now  friendship  is  the  bringing  together  of  these 
intensely  individual,  highly  difTerentiated  persons  on  a 
basis  of  mutual  sympathy  and  common  understanding. 
Friendship  is  the  recognition  and  respect  of  individu- 
ality in  others  by  persons  who  are  highly  individualized 
themselves.  That  is  why  Aristotle  says  true  friendship 
is  possible  only  between  the  good;  between  people,  that 
is,  who  are  in  earnest  about  ends  that  are  large  and 
generous  and  public-spirited  enough  to  permit  of  being 
shared.  "  The  bad,"  he  says,  "  desire  the  company  of 
others,  but  avoid  their  own.  And  because  they  avoid 
their  own  company,  there  is  no  real  basis  for  union  of 
aims  and  interests  with  their  fellows."  "  Having  noth- 
ing lovable  about  them,  they  have  no  friendly  feelings 

323 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

toward  themselves.  If  such  a  condition  is  consum- 
mately miserable,  the  moral  is  to  shun  vice,  and  strive 
after  virtue  with  all  one's  might.  For  in  this  way  we 
shall  at  once  have  friendly  feelings  toward  ourselves 
and  become  the  friends  of  otheVs.  A  good  man  stands 
in  the  same  relation  to  his  friend  as  to  himself,  seeing 
that  his  friend  is  a  second  self."  "The  conclusion, 
therefore,  is  that  if  a  man  is  to  be  happy,  he  will  require 
good  friends." 

Friendship  has  as  many  planes  as  human  life  and 
human  association.  The  men  with  whom  we  play  golf 
and  tennis,  billiards  and  whist,  are  friends  on  the  lowest 
plane  —  that  of  common  pleasures.  Our  professional 
and  business  associates  are  friends  upon  a  little  higher 
plane  —  that  of  the  interests  we  share.  The  men  who 
have  the  same  social  customs  and  intellectual  tastes ; 
the  men  with  whom  we  read  our  favourite  authors,  and 
talk  over  our  favourite  topics,  are  friends  upon  a  still 
higher  plane  —  that  of  identity  of  aesthetic  and  intel- 
lectual pursuits.  The  highest  plane,  the  best  friends, 
are  those  with  whom  we  consciously  share  the  spiritual 
purpose  of  cur  lives.  This  highest  friendship  is  as 
precious  as  it  is  rare.  With  such  friends  we  drop  at 
once  into  a  matter-of-course  intimacy  and  communion. 
Nothing  is  held  back,  nothing  is  concealed  ;  our  aims 
are  expressed  with  the  assurance  of  sympathy ;  even 
our  shortcomings  are  confessed  with  the  certainty  that 
they  will  be  forgiven.  Such  friendship  lasts  as  long  as 
the  virtue  which  is  its  common  bond.  Jealousy  cannot 
come  in  to  break  it  up.  Absolute  sincerity,  absolute 
loyalty,  —  these  are  the  high  terms  on  which  such 
friendship  must  be  held.  A  person  may  have  many 
324 


Friendship 

such  friends  on  one  condition  :  that  he  shall  not  talk  to 
any  one  friend  about  what  his  friendship  permits  him 
to  know  of  another  friend.  Each  such  relation  must 
be  complete  within  itself ;  and  hermetically  sealed,  so 
far  as  permitting  any  one  else  to  come  inside  the  sacred 
circle  of  its  mutual  confidence.  In  such  friendship, 
differences,  as  of  age,  sex,  station  in  life,  divide  not,  but 
rather  enhance,  the  sweetness  and  tenderness  of  the 
relationship.  In  Aristotle's  words  :  "  The  friendship 
of  the  good,  and  of  those  who  have  the  same  virtues, 
is  perfect  friendship.  Such  friendship,  therefore,  en- 
dures so  long  as  each  retains  his  character,  and  virtue 
is  a  lasting  thing." 

William  DeWiti  Hyde 

TT  OW  were  Friendship  possible  ?  In  mutual  devoted- 
•*■  -^  ness  to  the  Good  and  True  :  otherwise  impossible, 
except  as  Armed  Neutrality,  or  hollow  Commercial 
League.  A  man,  be  the  Heavens  ever  praised,  is  suffi- 
cient for  himself ;  yet  were  ten  men,  united  in  Love, 
capable  of  being  and  of  doing  what  ten  thousand  singly 
would  fail  in.     Infinite  is  the  help  man  can  yield  to  man. 

Thomas  Carlyle 

TJ*RIENDSHIP  is  a  vase,  which,  when  it  is  flawed 
■*■  by  heat,  or  violence,  or  accident,  may  as  well  be 
broken  at  once ;  it  can  never  be  trusted  after.  The 
more  graceful  and  ornamental  it  was,  the  more  clearly 
do  we  discern  the  hopelessness  of  restoring  it  to  its  for- 
mer state.  Coarse  stones,  if  they  arc  fractured,  may 
be  cemented  again  ;  precious  ones  never. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

325 


The  Book  .of  Friendship 


Klindred  Hearts      <:>     ^cv     '<::i.'     '■j^-     ^^^^     -cy 

/^  ASK  not,  hope  thou  not,  too  much 

^-^  Of  sympathy  below ; 

Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow : 
Few  —  and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet  — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns ; 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o  'er  thy  soul  can  bring,  — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times,  — 

A  sorrowful  delight ! 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes. 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night ; 
The  wind  that,  with  so  many  a  tone. 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill,  — 
These  may  have  language  all  thine  own, 

To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not  for  this  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years  ; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 
326 


Friendship 

If  th  jre  be  one  that  o  'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 
And  watched  through  sickness  by  thy  bed, 

Call  his  a  kindred  heart! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made, 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend. 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend, 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  aUied, 

Never  to  mortals  given, 
O,  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven ! 

Felicia  Hemans 

Friends  and  Enemies     ^c:^      ^c>      ^ci*.      -:::^      ^;> 

T  WILL  take  heed  both  of  a  speedy  friend  and  a  slow 
■'■  enemy.  Love  is  never  lasting  which  flames  before  it 
bums ;  and  hate,  like  wetted  coals,  throws  a  fiercer  heat 
when  fire  gets  the  mastery.  As  quick  wits  have  seldom 
sound  judgments  which  should  make  them  continue, 
so  friendship  kindled  suddenly  is  rarely  found  to  consist 
with  the  durability  of  affection.  Enduring  love  is  ever 
built  on  virtue,  which  no  man  can  see  in  another  at  once. 
He  that  fi.xes  upon  her  shall  find  a  beauty  which  will  every 
day  take  him  with  some  new  grace  or  other.  I  like  that 
love  which,  by  a  soft  ascension,  by  degrees  possesses  itself 
of  the  soul.  As  for  an  enemy  who  is  long  a  making,  he  is 
much  the  worse  for  being  ill  no  sooner.  He  hates  not 
without  cause  who  is  unwilling  to  hate  at  all. 

Owen  Feltham 

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The  Book  of  Friendship 

True  Love  is  Blind       ^ci.-      -cy      ^v>      -^cy      -s> 

'  I  ""RUE  love,  we  know,  is  blind :  defects  that  blight 
-*■     The  loved  one's  charms  escape  the  lover's  sight, 
Nay,  pass  for  beauties,  as  Balbinus  glows 
With  admiration  of  his  Hagna's  nose. 
Ah,  if  in  friendship  we  e'en  did  the  same. 
And  virtue  cloaked  the  error  with  her  name  ! 
Come,  let  us  learn  how  friends  at  friends  should  look 
By  a  leaf  taken  from  a  father 's  book. 
Has  the  dear  child  a  squint  ?  at  home  he 's  classed 
With  Venus'  self ;  '  her  eyes  have  just  that  cast' : 
Is  he  a  dwarf  like  Sisyphus  ?  his  sire 
Calls  him  '  sweet  pet,'  and  would  not  have  him  higher, 
Gives  Varus'  name  to  knock-kneed  boys,  and  dubs 
His  club-foot  youngster  Scaurus,  king  of  clubs. 
E  'en  so  let  us  our  neighbours'  frailties  scan : 
A  friend  is  close ;  call  him  a  careful  man : 
Another's  vain  and  fond  of  boasting ;  say, 
He  talks  in  an  engaging,  friendly  way : 
A  third  is  a  barbarian,  rude  and  free ; 
Straightforward  and  courageous  let  him  be : 
A  fourth  is  apt  to  break  into  a  flame ; 
An  ardent  spirit  —  make  we  that  his  name. 
This  is  the  sovereign  recipe,  be  sure, 
To  win  men's  hearts,  and  having  won,  secure. 

Horace 


338 


Friendship 

The  Masterpiece  of  Nature   ^Ci^      <::>      ^^      <::>. 

T  DO  now  wish  to  treat  friendships  daintily,  but  with 
-*■  roughest  courage.  When  they  are  real,  they  are  not 
glass  threads  or  frost-work,  but  the  solidest  thing  we 
know.  For  now,  after  so  many  ages  of  experience,  what 
do  we  know  of  nature,  or  of  ourselves  ?  Not  one  step 
has  man  taken  toward  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  his 
destiny.  In  one  condemnation  of  folly  stand  the  whole 
universe  of  men.  But  the  sweet  sincerity  of  joy  and 
peace,  which  I  draw  from  this  alhance  with  my  brother's 
soul,  is  the  nut  itself  whereof  all  nature  and  all  thought 
is  but  the  husk  and  shell.  Happy  is  the  house  that 
shelters  a  friend  !  It  might  well  be  built,  like  a  festal 
bower  or  arch,  to  entertain  him  a  single  day.  Happier, 
if  he  knew  the  solemnity  of  that  relation,  and  honor  its 
law !  He  who  offers  himself  a  candidate  for  that  cov- 
enant comes  up,  like  an  Olympian,  to  the  great  games 
where  the  first-born  of  the  world  are  the  competitors. 
He  prof)Oses  himself  for  contests  where  Time,  Want, 
Danger  are  in  the  lists,  and  he  alone  is  victor  who  has 
truth  enough  in  his  constitution  to  preserve  the  delicacy 
of  his  beauty  from  the  wear  and  tear  of  all  these.  The 
gifts  of  fortune  may  be  presented  or  absent,  but  all  the 
hap  in  that  contest  depends  on  intrinsic  nobleness,  and 
the  contempt  of  trifles.  There  are  two  elements  that 
go  to  the  composition  of  friendship,  each  so  sovereign, 
that  I  can  detect  no  superiority  in  either,  no  reason  why 
either  should  be  first  named.  One  is  Truth.  A  friend 
is  a  person  with  whom  I  may  be  sincere.  Before  him,  I 
may  think  aloud.  I  am  arrived  at  last  in  the  presence 
of  a  man  so  real  and  equal  that  I  may  drop  even  those 

329 


The  Book  of  Friendship 

undermost  garments  of  dissimulation,  courtesy,  and  sec- 
ond thought,  which  men  never  put  off,  and  may  deal 
with  him  with  the  simpHcity  and  wholeness,  with  which 
one  chemical  atom  meets  another.  Sincerity  is  the  luxury 
allowed,  like  diadems  and  authority,  only  to  the  highest 
rank,  that  being  permitted  to  speak  truth,  as  having  none 
above  it  to  court  or  conform  unto.  Every  man  alone  is 
sincere.  At  the  entrance  of  a  second  person,  hypocrisy 
begins.  We  parry  and  fend  the  approach  of  our  fellow- 
man  by  compliments,  by  gossip,  by  amusements,  by 
affairs.  We  cover  up  our  thought  from  him  under  a 
hundred  folds.  I  knew  a  man  who,  under  a  certain 
religious  frenzy,  cast  off  this  drapery,  and  omitting  all 
compliments  and  commonplace,  spoke  to  the  conscience 
of  every  person  he  encountered,  and  that  with  great 
insight  and  beauty.  At  first  he  was  resisted,  and  all  men 
agreed  he  was  mad.  But  persisting,  as  indeed  he  could 
not  help  doing,  for  some  time  in  this  course,  he  attained 
to  the  advantage  of  bringing  every  man  of  his  acquaint- 
ance into  true  relations  with  him.  No  man  would  think 
of  speaking  falsely  with  him,  or  of  putting  him  off  with 
any  chat  of  markets  or  reading-rooms.  But  every  man 
was  constrained  by  so  much  sincerity  to  the  like  plain 
dealing,  and  what  love  of  nature,  what  poetry,  what 
symbol  of  truth  he  had,  he  did  certainly  show  him.  But 
to  the  most  of  us  society  shows  not  its  face  and  eye,  but 
its  side  and  its  back.  To  stand  in  true  relations  with  men 
in  a  false  age,  is  worth  a  fit  of  insanity,  is  it  not?  We 
can  seldom  go  erect.  Almost  every  man  we  meet  re- 
quires some  civility,  —  requires  to  be  humored  ;  he  has  some 
fame,  some  talent,  some  whim  of  rehgion  or  philanthropy 
in  his  head  that  is  not  to  be  questioned,  and  which  spoils  all 
330 


Friendship 

conversation  with  him.  But  a  friend  is  a  sane  man  who 
exercises  not  my  ingenuity,  but  me.  My  friend  gives  me 
entertainment  without  requiring  any  stipulation  on  my 
part.  A  friend,  therefore,  is  a  sort  of  paradox  in  nature. 
I  who  alone  am,  I  who  see  nothing  in  nature  whose  exist- 
ence I  can  affirm  with  equal  evidence  to  my  own,  behold 
now  the  semblance  of  my  being  in  all  its  height,  variety 
and  curiosity  reiterated  in  a  foreign  form;  so  that  a 
friend  may  well  be  reckoned  the  master-piece  of  nature. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 


331 


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